isaeoB'iimxi.xaia/iisssBti^im 


LITERATURE. 


■iN^/iLiFg.B^'^'r 


ISg  t\)t  ^ame  autfjot. 


THE  LIFE  OF  MICHAEL  ANGELO. 
Translated  bf  Fanny  Elizabeth  Bur- 
nett.    2  vols.     Crown  8vo.     Cloth.    $5.00. 

THE    LIFE   AND   TIMES   OF  GOETHE. 

Translated,  with  the  author's  approval,   by 

Miss  S.   H.  Adams.     Crown  8vo.     Cloth. 

$2.50. 
THE    LIFE    OF    RAPHAEL.      Translated 

by  Miss  S.  H.  Adams.    Illustrated.    Crown 

8vo.     Cloth.     S2.00. 


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Essays  on  Literature. 


RALPH    WALDO    EMERSON.  FRANCE   AND    VOLTAIRE. 

VOLTAIRE   AND    FREDERICK   THE   GREAT. 

FREDERICK  THE  GREAT  AND    MACAULAY.  ALBERT   DURER. 

THE    BROTHERS    GRIMM. 

BETTINA  VON  ARNIM.      DANTE  AND  THE  RECENT  ITALIAN  STRUGGLES. 


By  HERMAN   GRIMM.  V^^ 


NEW   AND   REVISED   EDITION. 


„2Bar'  nicfet  ba«  Sluge  fonncntioft, 
T)te  Sonne  fiinnt'  d  ntc  crHicfen; 
Sag'  nt^t  in  mi  bc3  ®cttc«  eigne  ^oft, 
SBie  fonnf  un$  ©ijttlicbed  cntsiicfen." 

Goethe,  Epigrams. 


BOSTON: 

CUPPLES   AND   HURD,  PUBLISHERS. 
1888. 


^>?A 


Copyright,  1885, 
By  SARAH   H.  ADAMS. 


All  rights  reserved. 


.^< 


TO 

JAMES    H.    BEAL 

THIS  AirEBICA>'  EDITION  IS  tSSCKIBED  BY  THE  TKAXSLATOB  AS 

B  G:rH)ute 

OF   RESPECT,   GRATITUDE,   AND   LOVE. 


/'■'0-'- 


IVEKS'TY 

PREFACE. 


An  episode  of  peculiar  import  belongs  to  recent 
German  history,  revealing  the  character  of  a  few  Ht- 
erary  men  in  a  heroic  light. 

While  offering  to  the  public,  in  this  little  book,  a 
brief  notice  of  the  "  Brothers  Grimm,"  perhaps  a  few 
words  may  be  added  to  give  an  incident  in  the  career 
of  these  men,  already  endeared  to  American  readers  by 
their  unrivalled  productions. 

Emerson  regretted  that  one  must  so  often  combine 
the  adjectives  "  weak  and  literary  " ;  intellect  rises  or 
sinks  with  character,  "goodness  itself  being  an  eye." 
"  Where  there  is  depravity  there  is  a  slaughter-house 
style  of  thinking."  It  was  Byron  himself  who 
insulted  the  glorious  genius  born  within  him,  and 
well-nigh  destroyed  all  claim  to  immortahty,  by  lend- 
ing expression  to  misanthropy  and  weaknesses  of  all 
kinds ;  putting  what  was  personal  and  transitory  in 
place  of  the  eternal  and  universal.  No  greater  con- 
trast to  this  can  be  quoted  in  the  whole  history  of 


VI  PKEFACE. 

literature  than  is  presented  by  the  Grimms ;  and  it  is 
the  more  pleasant  to  dwell  on  it,  since  in  them  also 
we  find  the  truest  representatives  of  Germany,  —  her 
highest  culture,  sweet  sincerity,  and  simple  soul-full 
life. 

Jacob  and  WilHam  Grimm  were  Hessians,  and  born 
at  Hanau.  Their  father  was  a  lawyer,  and  they  were 
educated  for  jurists.  It  was  while  studying  Eoman 
law  under  Savigny,  in  Paris,  1805,  that  the  brothers 
(Jacob  in  his  nineteenth  year,  William  in  his  eigh- 
teenth) formed  the  resolution  never  to  separate,  and 
set  before  themselves  the  distinct  aim  of  a  revival  of 
ancient  German  literature.  In  their  school-days  they 
had  worked  at  one  desk ;  later,  they  had  two  in  one 
room ;  lastly,  they  wrote  in  adjacent  rooms.  In  their 
united  publications  the  Christian  names  are  omitted. 
Old  German  Poems,  The  Songs  of  the  Edda,  the  Mdr- 
chen  and  Sagen,  are  by  the  "Brothers  Grimm."  In 
middle  life  each  labored  awhile  in  his  separate  prov- 
ince. William  Grimm  wrote  Heldensage,  a  work  of 
stupendous  learning,  embracing  the  whole  range  of 
German  hero-lore,  out  of  which  the  material  had  come 
for  the  innumerable  tales,  poems,  and  songs  of  the 
Middle  Ages.  He  also,  among  other  things,  brought 
to  light  and  edited  a  work  by  Freidank,  written  in 


PKEFACE.  Vii 

the  tliirteenth  century,  on  Moderation,  or  Good  Sense. 
Jacob  wrote  the  German  Grammar,  a  History  of  the 
German  Language,  German  Mythology,  Eeinhard  the 
Fox,  and  the  German  Rechtsalterthiimer. 

But  these  men  were  not  merely  heroes  with  the 
pen.  In  1833  Wilham  IV  had  given  the  Hanoverians 
a  constitution  which  secured  to  the  people  many  im- 
portant rights.  The  brothers  Grimm  were  at  this 
time  holding  responsible  positions  in  the  Gottingen 
University,  and  were  also  in  charge  of  the  library 
there.  Upon  the  death  of  William  IV,  Ernst  Au- 
gustus, Duke  of  Cumberland,  succeeded  to  the  throne, 
and  almost  immediately  thereupon  abrogated  this  con- 
stitution. Against  such  a  despotic  act  Dahlmann, 
Gervinus,  and  the  brothers  Grimm  protested;  they 
bravely  demanded  a  repeal.  It  is  the  rarest  thing  for 
professors  to  rebel  and  protest:  they  submit,  and 
oftener  bar  than  open  the  gates  to  freedom.  But 
these  were  live  men,  and  seven  of  the  Gottingen  pro- 
fessors were  instantly  deprived  of  their  professorships, 
and  every  other  pubHc  trust  that  had  been  committed 
to  them.  This  occurred  in  1837.  The  excitement  was 
terrific;  the  people  were  too  timid  to  resist  the  decree 
of  the  king,  and  the  Grimms  were  banished  from  the 
country.     They  retired  to  their  old  home  in  Cassel, 


Vm  PEEFACE. 

grieved  in  spirit,  but  strong  in  the  conviction  of  right. 
We  read  with  the  deepest  reverence  Jacob  Grimm's 
simple  statement  that  their  proceeding  was  so  natural 
as  to  seem  much  more  insignificant  to  them  at  first. 

"  Such  men  will  help  to  save  mankind, 

Till  public  wi'ong  be  crumbled  into  dust, 
And  drill  the  raw  world  for  the  march  of  mind. 
Till  crowds  at  length  be  sane,  and  crowns  be  just." 

Jacob  Grimm  always  hoped  for,  and  in  fact  proph- 
esied, the  unity  of  Germany.  On  the  accession  of 
Frederick  William  IV  the  brothers  were  called  to  the 
Berlin  University  in  the  most  flattering  and  honor- 
able way,  as  members  of  the  Prussian  Academy  of 
Science,  of  which  Jacob  had  been  for  some  years  a 
foreign  member. 

It  has  not  been  my  aim,  in  this  brief  preface,  to 
give  anything  approaching  a  comprehensive  idea  of 
the  labors  of  the  Grimms.  They  were  simply  colossal, 
and  require  and  deserve  much  greater  space  than  I 
have  allotted  here.  I  only  hoped  to  bring  them  per- 
sonally a  little  nearer  to  my  readers.  In  closing  a 
centennial  eulogy  upon  the  "  Brothers  Grimm,"  last 
winter  in  Berlin,  Scherer  said:  — 

"Great  learning   not   unfrequently  leads   to   pride, 


PREFACE.  IX 


self-satisfaction,  jealousy,  and  dogmatism.  It  is  apt  to 
interfere  with  intuitive  perceptions  and  sound  under- 
standing. It  plants  subtile  fancies  and  an  artificial 
taste.  Whole  literary  epochs  have  been  poisoned  by 
a  pompous  display  of  superiorities  and  vainglorious 
pretensions.  It  has  often  set  up  a  false  standard 
among  men,  and  ranked  a  sum  of  esoteric  knowl- 
edge, under  the  illusive  name  of  education,  higher 
than  a  human  heart  filled  with  its  ancient  mysteri- 
ous power. 

"  The  brothers  Grimm  —  the  noble  pair !  —  from  all 
the  frivolity  of  false  education  and  empty  parade  of 
wit  were  wholly  free.  In  the  zenith  of  their  life  and 
fame  they  remained  simple,  good  men.  They  sympa- 
thized with  children,  as  weU  as  with  the  worldly-wise, 
with  statesmen,  and  poets.  Their  unostentatious  ge- 
niality radiates  a  soft  splendor  adown  the  coming 
years,  for  fate  had  dowered  them  with  her  choicest 
gift,  —  an  immaculate  beauty  of  soul." 

Professor  Herman  Grimm,  son  of  WiUiam  Grimm, 
was  bom  at  Cassel,  in  1828.  In  his  thirteenth  year 
he  came  to  Berlin,  from  that  time  to  be  surrounded  by 
the  noblest  men  and  women  of  Germany.  Madame 
D'Arblay  said  of  herself,  "I  never  studied;  at  my 
father's  fireside  I  drank  in  a  world   of    intelligence." 


X  PREFACE. 

But  even  at  this  time  Berlin  must  also  have  ajfforded 
peculiar  advantages  for  study  of  the  exact  sciences. 

As  in  his  father  the  artistic  element  predominated, 
while  his  uncle  Jacob  was  rather  the  jurisprudent, 
our  young  professor's  eyes  instinctively  sought  the 
pictures  of  the  old  masters,  and  he  early  turned  his 
studies  chiefly  in  this  direction.  He  published  in 
1860-63  the  Life  atul  Times  of  Michael  Angela,  to  use 
the  German  expression,  an  "  epoche  machendes  "  book. 
"  Twenty-five  years  ago,"  said  one  of  the  professors  to 
me,  "  no  man  dared  lift  his  head  in  Germany  who  had 
not  read  it."  Here  was  furnished  the  conception  of 
a  genuine  biography,  —  the  man  in  his  surroundings, 
and  as  he  looked  to  his  own  century.  Some  years  later, 
and  at  Emerson's  suggestion,  Professor  Grimm  wrote, 
not  precisely  a  Life  of  Goethe  (although  the  work  re- 
ceived this  title  in  America),  but  a  series  of  lectures 
on  the  great  poet,  throwing  a  vast  deal  of  hght  on  all 
the  controverted  points  in  Goethe's  hfe  and  writings. 

The  essays  on  Emerson  in  this  little  volume  which 
we  now  present  to  the  pubhc  were  written  twenty-five 
years  apart.  Beside  their  intrinsic  merits,  they  are  in- 
teresting as  proofs  of  a  spiritual  affinity  great  enough 
to  enable  these  men  to  find  each  other  in  spite  of  the 
hindrance  interposed  by  difference  of  language.    Em- 


PREFACE.  XI 


erson  is  not  appreciated  in  Germany  even  to-day, 
although  his  writings  are  slowly  making  their  way ; 
but  Professor  Grimm's  admiration  for  him  has  been, 
and  still  is,  considered  one  of  the  eccentricities  of 
genius.  Byron  and  Shelley  were  the  first  in  England 
to  speak  with  authority  of  Goethe  as  the  great  poet 
of  the  nineteenth  century,  although  Byron  knew  little 
enough  of  the  German  language,  and  could  not  read 
the  Faust  without  Shelley's  aid. 

In  this  age  of  dilutions  and  repetitions  the  refresh- 
ment afforded  in  turning  to  the  pages  of  an  inde- 
pendent, original  thinker  is  indescribable.  Professor 
Grimm's  views  on  art  are  especially  iastructive  and 
elevating ;  they  are  not  taken  from  a  one-sided  artistic 
stand]3oint,  but  from  a  vastly  higher  and  broader  one, 
—  the  human  standpoint,  the  value  of  art  in  the  de- 
velopment of  mankind.  Hence  we  never  meet  in  his 
writings  with  anything  to  remind  us  of  Euskin's  par- 
tial, dogmatic  assertions,  which,  with  a  measure  of 
truth  in  them,  still  do  such  violence  to  what  is  ex- 
cluded from  his  range  of  vision.  On  the  other  hand, 
unless  Professor  Grimm's  artistic  manner  of  treating 
all  subjects  is  understood,  he  must  seem  discursive. 
The  unity  is  far  deeper  than  appears,  and  is  complete. 
He  gives  to  every  sketch  its  background ;  puts  in  the 


Xli  PREFACE. 

light  and  shade,  and  ends  by  bringing  his  figures 
directly  into  the  foreground,  where  they  remain  indeli- 
bly stamped  on  our  memories  j  therefore  is  he  the 
very  prince  of  essayists. 

Van  Helmont  said :  "  It  is  my  greatest  desire  that 
it  may  be  granted  unto  atheists  to  taste,  at  least  for 
one  moment,  what  it  is  to  understand  intellectually." 
Men  strain  nerve  and  muscle  to  climb  the  highest 
mountains  in  order  to  gain  broader  views,  and  wel- 
come telescopes  which  afford  a  still  wider  range  of 
vision.  Are  not  minds  greater  than  ours  like  intel- 
lectual telescopes,  through  which  it  must  ever  be  our 
privilege  and  joy  to  obtain  a  ghmpse,  thereby  winning 
for  ourselves  broader  horizons?  I  must  beheve  that 
in  my  native  land  there  is  a  class  of  readers  who 
will  welcome  these  essays,  which  I  have  endeavored 

faithfully  to  translate. 

''  SAKAH  H.  ADAJIS. 


RALPH  WALDO   EMERSON. 

FIRST  ESSAY,  PUBLISHED  IN    1861. 

A  GOOD  many  years  since,  at  the  house  of  an 
American  friend  I  happened  to  take  up  a  volume  of 
Emerson's  Essays  which  was  lying  upon  the  table.  I 
looked  into  it,  —  read  a  page,  and  was  startled  to  find 
that  I  had  understood  nothing,  though  tolerably  well 
acquainted  with  English.  I  inquired  as  to  the  author. 
In  reply  I  was  told  that  he  was  the  first  writer  in 
America,  an  eminently  gifted  man,  but  somewhat 
crazed  at  times,  and  often  unable  to  explain  his  own 
words.  Notwithstanding,  no  one  was  held  in  such 
esteem  for  his  character,  and  for  his  prose  writings. 
In  short,  the  opinion  fell  upon  my  ears  as  so  strange 
that  I  reopened  the  book.  Some  sentences,  upon  a  sec- 
ond reading,  shot  like  a  beam  of  light  into  my  very 
soul,  and  I  was  moved  to  put  the  book  in  my  pocket, 
that  I  might  read  it  more  attentively  at  home.  I  find 
it  is  a  great  deal  to  begin  with  if  a  book  so  far  attracts 
us  that  we  resolve,  without  urging,  to  look  it  through; 
since,  as  a  measure  of  self-preservation,  it  is  necessary 
to  stand  on  the  defensive  now-a-days   against  books 

1 


2  RALPH   WALDO   EMEESON. 

and  people,  if  we  would  reserve  time  and  inclination 
for  our  own  thoughts. 

I  took  Webster's  Dictionary  and  began  to  read.  The 
construction  of  the  sentences  struck  me  as  very  ex- 
'  traordinary.  I  soon  discovered  the  secret:  they  were 
real  thoughts,  an  individual  language,  a  sincere  man, 
that  I  had  before  me;  naught  superficial  —  second- 
ihand.  Enough!  I  bought  the  book !  From  that  time 
\l  have  never  ceased  to  read  Emerson's  works,  and 
whenever  I  take  up  a  volume  anew  it  seems  to  me 
as  if  I  were  reading  it  for  the  first  time. 

It  is  not  easy  to  say  what  attracts  us  to  a  writer,  and 
it  is  especially  difficult  to  speak  of  a  contemporary. 
We  say  in  general,  "  I  find  him  sympathetic."  It  is 
most  natural  for  me  to  describe  my  feeling  through 
a  comparison  with  the  physical  laws  of  weight  and 
gravity.  I  assume  that  there  rests  upon  the  soul  of 
every  man  who  has  grown  to  manhood  a  certain  burden, 
— the  sum  of  his  experiences,  recollections,  hopes, 
fears,  and  daily  environments, — and  that  his  happiness 
is  in  proportion  to  his  success  in  escaping  from  this 
pressure  and  living  in  a  sense  of  freedom.  Hence  we 
so  often  envy  children,  and  even  the  good  cattle. 

The  usual  means  for  surmounting  this  burden  of 
mortality  is  in  regular  occupation.  Busied  with  this, 
we  forget  ourselves  most  easily  and  naturally.  Let  me 
say,  incidentally,  that  for  this  reason  I  cannot  agree 
with  the  views  of  many  national  economists,  who 
regard  the  arduous  labor  of  the  poor  man  as  a  sacrifice 


RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON.  S 

he  offers  to  the  community,  throwing  a  sort  of  halo 
about  him,  which  should  excite  envy  and  secret  shame 
in  the  minds  of  all  people  whose  hands  are  not  cal- 
loused by  toil. 

Another  means  of  relief  is  sought  in  revelries  and 
distracting  pleasures.  The  highest  relief,  however,  is 
found  in  the  enjoyment  of  Nature  and  the  Fine  Arts. 

To  the  latter  study  a  man  either  wholly  devotes 
himself,  or  allows  it  to  fill  the  moments  when,  tried 
with  business,  the  hunger  of  the  soul  must  be  appeased 
in  another  manner.  We  select  from  the  wealth  before 
us,  each  according  to  his  idiosyncrasy; — one  is  ab- 
sorbed with  Goethe,  another  with  Shakespeare  and 
Eaphael,  Beethoven,  Handel,  and  Plato.  Others  of 
less  depth  grasp  the  hand  of  some  spirit  on  a  lower 
plane,  or  eagerly  welcome  the  latest  sensation  on  the 
stage,  in  the  book-stores,  or  in  the  concert-halL  A 
contrary  fancy  leads  still  others  to  pursue  enthusiasti- 
cally whatever  is  rare  or  unknown  in  books,  engravings, 
and  works  of  art,  and  to  value  these  things  in  propor- 
tion to  the  difficulty  of  obtaining  them.  But  none  of 
these  can  satisfy  a  rightly  constituted  mind.  The 
clear-headed  man  first  contemplates,  wholly  unbiased, 
the  phenomena  around  him ;  if  anything  cHngs  to  him 
and  will  not  let  him  go,  he  stops!  he  enjoys!  The 
question  whether  what  has  so  captivated  his  senses  is 
really  beautiful  is  secondary ;  the  first  must  always  be, 
does  it  fascinate  him,  and  for  how  long  ?  With  genuine 
modesty  he  then  proceeds  from  enjoyment  to  knowl- 


4  KALPII  WALDO   EMERSON". 

edge,  but  full  of  caution,  remembering  the  destructive 
spark  which  fell  from  Psyche's  too  rashly  kmdled 
lamp. 

In  truth,  we  rarely  know  what  the  specific  property 
is  in  an  intellectual  work  which  has  captivated  us,  or 
which  the  word  that  compels  us  to  listen  and  to  obey. 
One  reads  Plato  through  in  translation  hke  an  agree- 
able story-book;  another  will  hang  on  every  word 
and  particle,  and  find  himself  roused,  sentence  after 
sentence,  to  the  most  searching  reflections ;  one  says, 
"  Goethe's  Elective  Affi,nities  interested  me  very  much ; " 
a  second,  "  It  has  struck  me  deeply ; "  a  third,  "  The 
book  contains  fearful  secrets."  Each  has  a  right  to 
choose  what  pleases  him,  and  to  live  in  the  spirit  of  it, 
provided  only  that  it  renders  him  the  desired  service, 
which  is,  —  to  lift  him  above  the  miseries  of  earth,  to 
inspire  a  fresh,  child-like  hopef uhiess,  which  makes  the 
ideal  alone  seem  the  real,  and  the  wearisome  cares  of 
daily  life  a  leaden  dream  which  oppresses  us.  But 
those  artists  stand  highest  who,  by  their  productions, 
accomphsh  the  still  greater  miracle  of  taking  up  with 
steady  hand  this  sorry  every-day  life,  to  unravel  artis- 
tically the  confused  web,  and  bring  out  its  intrinsic 
beauty.  They  transport  us  by  no  delusive  dreams  out 
of  the  world,  but  reveal  to  us  the  hidden  glories  sur- 
rounding every  object  in  God's  creation ;  they  do  not 
delude  us  out  of  our  griefs,  but  cause  them  to  disappear 
like  the  phantoms  of  an  over-burdened  imagination 
from  which  we  had  not  power  to  free  ourselves. 


RALPH   WALDO   EMERSON.  5 

In  Raphael  and  Goethe  we  have  examples  of  this 
elevating  influence  in  its  fullest  potency.  What  these 
artists  portray  does  not  overstep  by  one  line  the  meas- 
ure of  the  purely  human.  They  nowhere  entice  us 
into  marvellous,  impossible  regions ;  they  simply  open 
our  eyes,  and  at  once  we  see  our  ordinar}^  existence  for 
the  first  time  in  its  true  aspect,  beautiful  and  bright. 
They  stand  in  the  closest  affinity  to  nature ;  they  hold 
up  no  magic  mirror  before  us  to  magnify  or  behttle  ob- 
jects, and  to  present  them  either  in  a  rose-colored  hght 
or  wrapped  in  artificial  gloom ;  they  show  us  things  as 
they  are,  —  not  as  one  in  surly  mood  is  apt  to  regard 
them  on  a  sunless  day,  but  as  they  would  and  must 
appear  to  candid  observers,  had  not  our  eyes  been 
injured  and  abused  by  a  false  education  until  they  are 
no  longer  capable  of  discerning  without  help  these 
primal  glories. 

They  reconcile  us  to  Hfe.  What  depressed  now  fills 
me  with  joy,  and  I  no  longer  wish  to  escape  from  it. 
I  take  it  up,  and  it  changes  into  beauty  under  my 
hands.  WTiatsoever  these  men  touch  is  pure  gold,  is 
fair,  as  if  the  finger  of  Grod  pointed  to  it,  while  a  secret 
voice  whispered,  "  Look  only,  and  recognize  it."  I  find 
within  me  the  ability  to  perceive  it  so  long  as  they 
show  it  me. 

Emerson  possesses  this  power  in  the  highest  degree. 
"  Look  at  the  stars,"  begins  one  of  his  essays,  "  if  thou 
wilt  be  alone ;  the  beams  which  flow  from  this  heavenly 
world    separate   thee   from    thy   surroundings.      One 


6  RALPH  WALDO   EMERSON. 

might  think  the  atmosphere  was  made  transparent 
with  this  design,  —  to  give  man  in  the  heavenly  bodies 
the  perpetual  presence  of  the  sublime.  Seen  in  the 
streets  of  cities,  how  great  they  are !  If  the  stars 
should  appear  one  night  in  a  thousand  years,  how 
would  men  believe  and  adore,  and  preserve  for  many 
generations  the  remembrance  of  the  city  of  God  which 
had  been  shown !  But  every  night  come  out  these 
preachers  of  beauty,  and  light  the  universe  with  their 
admonishing  smile." 

It  is  the  opening  of  the  essay  called  Nature. ;  and 
as  I  went  on  reading  sentence  after  sentence,  I  felt  as 
if  I  had  met  with  the  simplest,  sincerest  man,  and  was 
listening  to  him  as  he  talked  to  me. 

I  did  not  ask  myself  if  he  was  brilhant  and  original, 
if  he  had  any  special  purpose  or  hidden  design  in  this 
essay  ?  I  simply  read  on,  one  page  after  another.  It  is 
possible  that  it  was  hard  and  confused,  but  it  did  not 
seem  so  to  me.  I  followed  the  thought  word  for  word ; 
all  was  known  and  familiar,  as  if  I  had  thought  or 
dreamed  it  a  thousand  times  myself,  and  yet  perfectly 
new,  as  if  I  were  learning  it  for  the  first  time.  If  I 
laid  the  book  aside  awhile  my  independent  spirit  re- 
volted against  this  all  too  potent  spell.  I  suspected 
myself  of  being  deluded  and  deceived.  I  reasoned 
within  me,  is  he  not  a  man  like  others,  with  their 
faults  and  questionable  virtues,  vain,  moody,  and  sus- 
ceptible to  flattery  ?  Then  reading  on  again,  the  air  of 
enchantment  stole  over  me,  freshening  again  the  old, 


RALPH   WALDO   EMERSON.  7 

worn-out  machinery  of  the  world,  and  as  if  I  had 
never  tasted  anything  so  pure.  I  was  told  lately  by 
an  American,  who  had  heard  Emerson  lecture,  that 
there  was  nothing  more  inspiring  than  to  Hsten  to  this 
man.  I  beUeve  it.  For  what  is  to  be  compared  with 
the  voice  of  one  who  is  speaking  out  of  his  deepest 
soul  what  he  believes  to  be  true  ? 

I  know  him  only  through  his  writings.  But  when 
through  long  years  one  receives  from  an  author's  works 
ever  the  same  pure,  soul-stirriag  impression,  while  so 
many  others  supposed  to  be  genuine  prove  hollow  and 
lifeless,  and  after  experience  has  taught  us  that  the 
consciousness  in  our  own  breasts  can  be  the  only  safe 
standard,  we  rest  satisfied  that  such  faith  in  the  power 
of  a  man  is  for  us  an  indisputable  possession.  Again 
and  again  we  see  true  genius  misjudged,  ostentation, 
pretension,  and  emptiness  believed  m,  until  we  grow 
insensible  to  the  floating  opiaion  of  the  day. 

But  seeing,  on  the  other  hand,  how  the  world  is  con- 
stantly longiag  for  a  man  to  whose  true  and  sterhng 
nature  it  may  surrender  for  guidance,  if  we  are  so  for- 
tunate as  to  meet  with  a  being  who  corresponds  to 
this  need,  we  must  in  the  joy  of  our  discovery  impart 
this  to  others  and  publicly  state  as  a  truth  what  we 
can  not  but  believe  to  be  true. 

I  turned  first  to  my  most  intimate  friends,  such  as  I 
knew  understood  Enghsh;  it  was  only  necessary  for 
me  to  lay  the  book  down  and  say,  "  Bead."  The  first 
attempt  was  perfectly  satisfactory,  and  confirmed  me 


S  RALPH   WALDO   EMERSON. 

in  my  opinion.     I  now  recommended  Emerson's  works 
at  large,  and  began  to  have  a  pretty  severe  experience. 
Emerson  writes  in  EngKsh.     Many  Germans  under- 
stand it  so  far  as  to  be  able  to  read  the  current  litera- 
ture, with  which  Tauchnitz  is  indefatigable  in  supplying 
r^-  the  continent.    Macaulay  gives  them  no  difficulty ;  even 
I    Carlyle  is  comprehended,  as  they  make  their  way  amid 
1    the  disorder  of  his  periods.     But  in  Emerson's  writings 
the  broad  turnpike  is  suddenly  changed  into  a  hazard- 
ous sandy  foot-path.     His  thoughts  and  his  style  are 
American,     He  is  not  writing  for  Berlin,  but  for  the 
i  people  of  Massachusetts.     He  uses  every  word   in  a 
L  sense  that  suits  him  at  the  moment,  and  whether  the 
rest  of  mankind  apprehend  it  or  not  is  quite  indifferent 
to  him.     It  was  Emerson's  experience  to  be  at  first 
proscribed  as  heretical,  insane,  blasphemous;   but  he 
went  on  undisturbed,  thinking  and  writing,  and  found 
himself  later  surrounded  by  admiring  crowds  wherever 
he   appeared.     How  could   he  then  be  much  affected 
by  what  was   said   of  him  anywhere,  but  especially 
in  Europe,  where  he  was  understood  with  difficulty  in 
English,  or  read  cursorily  through  a  German  transla- 
tion? 

A  second  obstacle :  Emerson  is  a  cultivated  man,  and 
in  speaking  to  his  own  people  and  the  English  has  a 
cultivated  audience  in  mind;  that  is,  persons  taking 
practical  views  of  life,  and  having  very  clear  concep- 
tions as  to  the  past  and  future  of  their  native  land. 
To   all   this   the   Germans   present  a  wonderful  con- 


EALPH  WALDO   EMERSON. 


trast.  We  are  extremely  learned  in  our  own  de- 
partment. We  know  life  very  minutely,  but  each 
under  the  narrowing  aspect  it  wears  in  his  particular 
career.  Public  spirit  is  only  just  awakening  here  and 
there,  and  gaining  a  shght  victory  over  the  special 
interests  of  different  ranks  and  professions.  Our 
historical  works  contain  very  accurate  summaries  of 
certain  portions  of  history,  but  fail  to  afford  a  compre- 
hensive idea  of  the  general  flow  of  the  great  stream  of 
events.  If,  then,  our  greatest  minds  are  so  fettered 
within  limitations,  what  is  to  be  expected  of  the  com- 
mon herd?  I  believe  there  is  nowhere  on  earth  so 
much  partial  knowledge  coupled  with  such  general 
isnorance.  Each  knows  what  he  must  know,  and 
knows  it  as  he  must  know  it.  Men  drive  through  the 
sciences  as  we  rush  through  Europe  in  an  express- 
tram.  The  desired  goal  is  reached,  the  journey  is 
behind  us,  but  we  have  had  no  active  share  in  it,  have 
heard  nothing,  seen  nothmg,  only  paid  for  our  tickets, 
and  passed  the  time  in  dreams.  One  may  travel  to-day 
from  St.  Petersburg  to  Madrid  without  domg  more 
than  opening  and  shutting  the  purse.  There  is  no 
wish  to  see  Germany  or  France,  and  the  i^urpose  of  the 
trip  is  wholly  fulfilled  by  reaching  the  Spanish  capital 
And  thus  it  is  with  our  learning !  We  have  a  wealth 
of  knowledge  in  our  heads ;  are  a  solvent  people,  ready 
at  any  instant  to  honor  in  sterling  coin  whatever 
demands  may  be  made  on  our  funds,  no  matter  how 
great  the  run  may  be ;  but  the  union  of  scientific  ideas 


10  RALPH   WALDO   EMEESON. 

with  the  spirit  that  harbors  them  is  a  cool  marriage  of 
convenience,  without  affinity  or  offspring.  How  scru- 
pulously we  avoid  discussions  in  which  knowledge  is 
to  be  brought  into  practical  relations  with  character ' 
Man  will  draw  no  inferences.  Everything  which  rises 
above  the  realm  of  the  positive,  and  is  demonstrated 
through  books,  is  looked  upon  with  suspicion.  Only 
the  obviously  incontestible  is  asserted  with  boldness, 
and  that  opinion  passed  over  in  distrustful  silence 
which  has  no  other  basis  than  the  deep  conviction  of 
him  who  offers  it.  Only  when  it  assumes  imposing 
dimensions  do  we  prick  up  our  ears,  and,  if  we  can  no 
longer  refuse  to  think  of  it,  commit  it  to  memory. 

Herein  lies  both  the  poverty  and  the  wealth  of  our 
day.  Emerson,  who  has  shown  so  charmingly  how 
Goethe  was  commissioned  to  take  up  into  himself  the 
infinite  amount  of  rambling  knowledge  in  his  century, 
as  so  much  manure  to  enrich  and  fertilize  the  soil 
of  his  mind,  and  thereby  develop  his  personality, — 
Emerson,  who  had  not  become  acquainted  with  Goethe 
through  books  others  had  fabricated  about  him,  but 
from  the  great  German's  own  writings,  —  speaks  of 
him  as  being  a  man  such  as  no  other  nation  had  pro- 
duced, —  the  full  bloom,  as  it  were,  of  German  nature, 
its  highest  qualities  appearing  symbolized  in  one  indi- 
vidual. Hence  he  distinguishes  him  as  "  the  writer " 
par  excellence,  as  Shakespeare  is  "  the  poet "  par  excel- 
lence, giving  to  each  his  due,  and  pointing  to  their 
historic  significance  to  the  Germanic  race,  which  they 


RALPH   WALDO   EMERSON.  11 

represent  in  two  directions.  What  he  says  of  both  is 
deduced  from  the  very  essence  of  their  characters,  and  is 
at  once  so  terse  and  so  profound  that  in  many  places 
ahiiost  every  word  seems  to  need  a  commentary. 

A  man  must  have  had  intercourse  with  the  great 
world  who  is  thus  able  to  comprehend  great  characters. 
Emerson's  friends  are  the  first  men  in  his  country, — 
a  country  which  has  a  magnificent  political  life,  whilst 
until  within  a  very  few  years  we  have  had  nothing 
of  the  sort.  Goethe  also  associated  with  the  leading 
spirits  of  his  nation,  as  thoroughly  harmonious  natures 
do  who  rise  to  a  height  where  a  whole  people  recognize 
their  superiority.  For  a  light-house  it  requires  not 
only  a  light  to  radiate  its  beams  over  the  wide  circle  of 
waters,  but  a  tower  from  whose  summit  the  light  must 
first  be  made  visible.^ 

A  nation  has  attained  its  zenith  when  all  its  powers, 
great  and  small,  are  stimulated  into  productive  activity. 
Every  man  then  has  too  much  to  do  to  trouble  himself 
about  his  neighbors;  entire  frankness  prevails;  great 
faults  and  great  virtues  show  themselves  without  dis- 
guise ;  no  one  is  tempted  to  practise  the  unprofitable 
art  of  throwing  a  mystery  over  his  own  or  other  people's 
morals.  Eead  Plato's  Banquet,  which,  like  a  pleasing 
chapter  in  a  modern  novel,  exhibits  Socrates,  Alcibiades, 
and  their  friends,  in  hours  of  social  relaxation.  Jupiter 
and  all  Olympus  might  have  shared  in  it,  so  great  and 

1  Mirabeau  has  somewhere  said  this. 


12  RALPH   WALDO   EMERSON. 

godlike  does  it  sound.  What  scintillations  of  genius ! 
and  withal  what  a  firm,  vigorous  basis !  Not  the 
artificial  esprit  of  the  brilliant  French  epoch,  nor  the 
masked  barbarism  of  the  Augustan  age  (although  both 
were  heroic  enough  in  comparison  with  many  others), 
but  pure  taste,  refinement,  heroism,  luxury,  spontaneity, 
courage,  manly  ideals,  with  aU  their  faults  and  weak- 
nesses, unaffected,  free,  harmonious  natures !  A  bril- 
liancy imparted  by  the  rarest  and  most  perfect  culture 
is  over  the  whole.  When  Alcibiades,  drunk,  rises  to 
eulogize  Socrates,  and  further  on  into  the  night  one 
after  the  other  topples  over,  until,  beside  Socrates,  only 
two  or  three  remain  to  see  the  morning  dawn  on  their 
revels,  why  are  we  not  shocked?  Yet  to  this  day 
good  men  and  true  read  and  re-read  these  pages  with 
care,  and  nobody  thinks  the  worse  of  Plato  for  having 
written  them.  If  a  modern  philosopher  had  fallen  on 
such  an  expedient  for  puttmg  immortal  words  into  the 
mouth  of  drunken  rakes,  what  a  cry  would  be  raised 
from  Dan  to  Beer-sheba !  And  truly  it  would  sound 
badly  enough !  A\Tiy  is  it  that  we  scarcely  dare  to  find 
fault  with  Aristophanes,  whom  Goethe  indulgently  calls 
"The  Spoiled  Darling  of  the  Graces"?  Because  the 
culture  of  these  Greeks,  dead  since  two  thousand  years, 
surrounds  their  names  and  works  as  an  imperishable 
bulwark,  warding  off  the  censure  wliich  might  arise 
from  other  modes  of  thought,  other  customs,  and  other 
nationalities. 

Emerson  could  have  written  for  his  country,  in  his 


RALPH   WALDO    EMERSON.  13 

own  sense  such  a  romance  as  Plato  vrrote  for  Athens. 
In  his  description  of  how  a  gentleman  enters  a  party 
we  find  the  sturdy  Germanic  counterpart  to  the  Pla- 
tonic Alcibiades.  I  can  conceive  no  more  perfect  ideal 
of  manly  character  than  Emerson  has  here  given.  It  is 
a  dehght  to  read  it,  and  to  many  perhaps  a  satisfaction 
that  this  free  democratic  American,  who  bows  before 
nothing  save  his  own  wiU  and  the  glorj^  of  the  Ger- 
manic race,  still  discloses  to  us  the  conditions  under 
which  an  aristocracy  is  possible,  necessary,  beautiful ; 
and  that  he  regards  the  power  to  enter  imembarrassed 
the  most  briUiant  assemblies  as  the  natural  accompani- 
ment of  exalted  rank.  He  is  not  speaking  of  what 
is  comme  il  faut,  or  fashionable,  but  of  the  behavior 
of  a  cultivated  man  in  the  historic  sense ;  not  of  the 
conventional  classes,  who  set  up  imaginary  barriers 
between  themselves  and  those  they  consider  their  in- 
feriors, but  of  such  persons  as  by  the  natural  course  of 
events  find  their  true  and  rightful  place  at  the  head 
of  society.  It  may  be  that  only  birth,  money,  tact,  or 
courage  and  buoyancy  of  soul  have  raised  them,  but 
there  they  stand,  and  no  one  denies  that  they  are  the 
aristocrats  of  the  day,  with  a  legitimate  claim  to  their 
position. 

He  treats  of  the  manners  of  these  men,  who  where- 
ever  they  appear  constitute  the  aristocracy,  and  m  the 
same  sense  handles  all  that  comes  within  the  reahn  of 
human  experience,  —  love,  friendship,  poHtics,  history, 
art,  poetry,  wisdom,  spiritual  laws,  circles,  the  over- 


14  RALPH   WALDO   EMERSON. 

soul.  Wherever  he  turns  things  fall  into  order  before 
his  eyes,  and  he  speaks  simply  of  what  he  has  seen. 

He  views  every  phenomenon  in  its  connection  with 
the  highest  idea,  and  does  not  regard  the  poet,  the 
prophet,  the  world  reformer,  alone  as  tools  of  provi- 
dence, but  finds  the  coal-heaver,  the  wood-cutter,  the 
poorest  day-laborer,  just  as  valuable  and  essential  in 
their  different  places.  Greatness  and  heroism  are  not 
inherent  to  the  material,  but  in  the  way  it  is  handled,  or 
according  to  how  one  fufils  the  task  in  life  which  out 
of  its  innumerable  vocations  he  has  chosen  for  his  own. 
His  teachings  contain  the  very  gospel  of  contentment, 
wliich  seems  well-nigh  lost  in  our  day,  although  it  is 
extolled  as  the  most  precious  dowry  of  all  times.  To- 
day, when  everything  seems  in  a  state  of  disintegra- 
tion, and  the  old  accustomed  forms  in  which  the  dif- 
ferent careers  of  men  were  cast,  in  order  to  take  fixed 
and  pre-determined  shapes,  prove  unsatisfactory,  — 
when  the  young  with  timid  curiosity,  the  old  with  sore 
misgivings,  are  seeking  everywhere  for  a  nucleus  round 
which  the  fluent  matter  may  collect,  according  to  the 
law  by  which  new  crystals  are  formed,  —  Emerson 
quotes  this  law.  He  shows  that  the  old  barriers  must 
fall  away,  because  they  impede  our  development,  and 
that  in  this  apparently  uncurbed  spontaneity  and  self- 
will  is  found  the  true  element  in  which  the  character 
of  the  Germanic  race  is  to  unfold  and  gain  its  full 
power. 

I  thought  every  one  must  derive  this  from  his  book, 


RALPH   WALDO   EMEESOX.  15 

that  his  sentences  must  strike  in  like  a  ball  from  a 
pistol  held  close  to  the  mark. 

But  I  soon  observed  that  insufficient  knowledge  of 
the  language,  and  want  of  freedom  in  the  soul,  were 
not  the  only  impediments ;  a  third  was  added. 

A  person  appears  in  a  very  strange  light  if   he  is 
all  on  fire  with  a  subject  which  others  regard  without 
the  shghtest  emotion.     "VMien  a  great  singer  transports 
the  whole  theatre,  any  man  who  claps  and  shouts  is 
felt  to  be  domg  just  the  right  thing,  but  if  he  is  the 
only  enraptured  listener,  while  all  the  rest  are  cold  and 
dumb,  his  enthusiasm  may  be  ever  so  Avell  founded, 
and  perhaps  shared  by  all  four  days  later,  yet  it  will 
make  him   at   the   time   seem   foolish  and  ridiculous 
enough.     I  spoke  of  Emerson  as  of  a  newly  discov- 
ered planet.     ]\Ien  listened,  but  at  the  most  were  only 
rather  curious  to  become  acquainted  with  his  books. 
It  is  marvelous  how  calmly  the  world  looks  toward 
the  advent  of   what  is  really  significant,  and   lets   it 
draw  near,  as  if  conscious  that  it  was  not  to  be  turned 
aside,  and  that  it  would  be  mefiaceable ;  not  one  step 
is   taken   to   meet   it;   whilst  we   rush   eagerly  after 
ephemeral  wares,  to  which  the   fleeting   taste  of   the 
day  alone  gives  any  value,   as   if   presentiment   here 
also  wliispered,  "Enjoy  them  while  fresh;  they  will 
soon  cease  to  please  you."     "One  can  foist  anything 
upon  the  people,"  says  Goethe,  "  only  nothmg  to  which 
they  stand   committed."     My  earnest   way  of  recom- 
mending Emerson  sufficed  to  excite  misgivings.     Many 


16  RALPH   WALDO   EMERSON. 

who  later  confessed  to  me  that  they  had  scarcely  looked 
into  his  books  coolly  criticised  him,  while  some  re- 
fused out  and  out  to  have  anything  to  do  with  his 
writings.  They  said  I  had  allowed  myself  to  be  over- 
awed by  a  mediocre  man ;  and  altogether,  why  did  I 
talk  of  Emerson,  who  might  be  a  clever  author  enough, 
but  certainly  the  man  was  neither  called  for  nor  wanted 
in  Germany. 

I  did  not  allow  myself  to  be  misled.  I  asked  men 
to  whom  I  ascribed  a  calm,  unbiased  receptivity  of 
mind  to  turn  their  attention  to  Emerson's  striking 
and  forcible  thoughts,  and  succeeded  in  persuading 
an  acquaintance  to  read  his  Essays  carefully.  He 
wrote  me  the  impression  made  on  him.  I  had  said 
that  I  was  anxious  to  translate  them.  "  So  far  as  I 
personally  am  concerned,"  he  replied,  "  I  fear  it  will 
be  to  me  forever  a  matter  of  indifference  whether 
you  translate  Emerson  or  not.  I  feel  him  to  be  a  poet 
and  a  poetical  orator,  but  he  has  no  element  akin  to 
my  nature :  he  is  an  American.  German  he  is  not, 
nor  will  he  ever  be,  however  successful  you  may  be 
in  rendering  his  words  in  our  language.  I  promise, 
at  all  events,  to  renew  my  effort  to  digest  him,  but 
hardly  believe  it  will  amount  to  much."  What  could 
I  reply  to  such  language  ?  There  was  no  antagonism 
in  this  case,  not  even  the  mildest  shade  of  it.  Every 
man  has  the  right  to  turn  aside  from  what  does  not 
please  him.  I  did  not  feel  called  upon  to  convert  the 
world  by  fire  and  sword   to  Emerson.     The   genuine 


EALPH   WALDO   EMEESON.  17 

finds  its  way ;  let  a  coppered  gold-piece  and  a  gilded 
copper  have  currency  for  a  while  and  they  will  by 
degrees  change  their  character  without  anybody's 
troubling  himself  to  rub  or  scrub  them.  And  so  we 
thought  with  Emerson :  because  a  man  feels  that  an 
author  has  ministered  to  a  want  in  his  own  nature, 
it  does  not  follow  that  he  must  necessarily  be  so 
essential  to  others.  Yet  I  will  make  one  more  at- 
tempt to  say  why  I  find  so  much  comfort  in  his 
writings. 

Comfort  is  the  word  which  best  expresses  my 
feeling !  For  what  do  we  need  ?  what  do  we  long 
for  ?  It  is  freedom  !  Formerly  this  word  had  a  sus- 
picious import,  before  which  princes  and  people  alike 
stood  in  holy  awe ;  to-day  it  is  a  harmless  utterance, 
betokening  the  ideal  of  a  well-regulated  political  con- 
stitution, toward  the  realization  of  which  the  princes 
and  all  the  various  parties  consent  to  unite.  But 
where  is  the  happy  mean  betwixt  law  and  self-will  ? 
No  one  knows  !  We  are  conscious  that  our  best  insti- 
tutions are  only  provisional,  and  not  in  our  country 
alone,  but  everywhere  on  this  earthly  ball.  Parties 
organize ;  no  party,  however,  being  absolutely  right, 
they  are  soon  merged  in  one  another ;  we  attempt  to 
say  what  we  think,  but  feel  that  it  is  not  the  whole 
truth  we  either  speak  or  hear  from  others,  and  know 
full  well  it  will  be  impossible  to  present  publicly  this 
whole  truth  in  its  fulness  and  stand  committed  to  it 
as  its   representative.     This  atmosphere  weighs  upon 


18  RALPH   WALDO   EMERSON, 

the  land,  and  the  highest  mountains  do  not  rise 
above  it. 

We  aspire  after  a  different  condition.  Every  one 
longs  to  have  a  clearer  path  before  him.  We  would 
enter  into  simpler  relations  with  our  fellow-men, 
and  find  in  their  silence  more  than  the  eloquence  of 
speech.  Uniforms,  titles,  insignia,  have  no  longer  any 
deep  spiritual  meaning.  Catholicism  and  Protestant- 
ism, spite  of  the  acumen  with  which  they  have  been 
pitted  against  each  other  of  late,  are  in  reality  no 
longer  in  such  a  state  of  antagonism  that  all  men,  the 
highest  and  the  lowest,  must  alike  be  engrossed  with 
it.  Nobles  and  commoners  meet  peacefully,  as  opti- 
mates,  where  money  and  birth  counterbalance;  from 
the  discordant  elements  of  the  day  we  do  not  antici- 
pate that  one  party  will  arise  victorious  over  the  rest, 
but  that  all  parties  will  blend  and  harmonize,  until 
finally  there  shall  remain  only  one  Church  and  one 
State.  But  what  next  ?  The  strife  will  then  be  to 
make  this  one  sovereignty  the  Germanic,  to  which  the 
Slavic,  Mongolian,  Eomanic,  and  whatever  the  other 
races  are  called,  shall  submit. 

This  union  of  Church  and  State  is  nothing  new  to 
our  race.  It  was  represented  in  pope  and  emperor. 
It  is  in  our  blood,  and  not  to  be  eradicated.  We 
desire  no  restitution  of  the  old  order  of  things,  —  no 
more  "  Eoman  expeditions,"  for  the  world  has  broad- 
ened, and  Italy  is  not  now  the  hub  of  the  universe. 
Neither  is  our  work  to-day  merely  the  carrying  out 


RALPH   WALDO   EMERSON.  19 

of  elaborate  theories.  We  must  be  satisfied,  for  the 
present,  to  see  the  goal  clearly  before  us,  and  the  path 
will  widen  as  we  proceed.  Each  man  is  now  moving 
along  by  himself,  but  all  hold  to  the  one  way.  This 
is  a  pecuHarity  of  our  times:  great  masses,  but  iso- 
lated men ;  indefatigable  piling  up  of  knowledge  and 
worldly  possessions,  and  yet  all  this  knowledge,  all 
these  possessions,  are  less  valued  than  the  straight- 
forward glance  of  a  man  who  looks  candidly  at  things 
around  him,  and  calls  them  by  the  names  which  he 
thinks  right.  A  stone  lies  in  the  meadow  to-day, 
lifted  only  to  be  thrown  aside  with  vexation ;  to 
morrow  comes  the  man  who,  lookmg  at  it  attentively, 
says,  "  It  is  a  mine  of  wealth."  Now  everybody  repeats 
this,  and  digs  for  the  precious  mineral.  We  do  not 
value  erudition  at  a  penny's  worth,  but  honor  the 
learned  man  as  a  "  scholar ; "  we  do  not  care  for  poetic 
art,  but  distinguish  one  man  as  "a  poet,"^ another  as 
"  physician,"  or  painter,  or  statesman ;  they  may  have 
studied  where  they  would  have  gained  their  knowl- 
edge m  whatever  way  they  chose,  —  may  first  have  been 
merchants,  farmers,  soldiers,  or  what  not  if  now  they 
only  fill  their  places,  and  are  able  to  make  themselves 
a  power  in  the  land.  We  feel  that  we  must  look  at 
life  in  this  way :  whoever  is  fit  for  anything  is  sure 
to  find  that  which  he  is  especially  fitted  to  do.  This 
is  freedom.  We  are  not  quite  educated  up  to  this, 
but  are  working  toward  it.  Emerson  is  the  man  who 
already  stands  upon  this  height. 


20  RALPU   WALDO   EMEESON. 

.  We  liave  a  kind  of  shudder  at  tlie  life  in  America. 
We  see  an  immense  edifice  swayed  to  and  fro  by  every 
gust  of  wind;  the  radical  unrest  does  not  seem  con- 
sistent with  any  great  natural  development  of  charac- 
ter; the  highest  honors  of  the  state  are  open  to  the 
lowest  citizen :  it  has  no  past,  with  its  established  cus- 
toms ;  its  laws  depend  on  the  will  of  the  moment ;  there 
is  no  permanently  aristocratic  class  by  whom  good- 
breeding  is  fostered  and  made  an  essential  quahfica- 
tion  for  entrance.  There  are  only  three  acknowledged 
powers,  —  character,  activity,  money.  It  is  surprising 
to  see  how  these  three  act  upon  one  another,  and  how 
justly  each  of  the  three  is  ranked.  Character  takes 
the  highest  place.  Of  this  we  have  abundant  proof; 
a  number  of  energetic  people,  with  the  greatest  amount 
of  talent,  stand  everywhere  at  the  head  of  affairs,  and 
in  positions  they  could  never  have  obtained  either  by 
money  or  coarse  strength.  Below  them  comes  a  class 
of  citizens  whose  less  or  greater  efficiency  determines 
the  height  on  which  they  stand.  The  rest,  without 
special  intellectual  ability,  are  estimated  according  to 
the  money  they  possess.  This  organization  in  its  sim- 
plicity forms  an  adamantine  basis  for  American  life. 

Upon  it  stands  Emerson.  He  contemplates  the 
world  as  it  lives  and  moves  around  him.  What  oc- 
curred, what  was  accomplished  before  his  day,  makes 
only  one  of  the  steps  to  the  elevation  on  which  he  has 
placed  himself.  The  living  have  the  preference  over 
the  dead.     The  Greeks  may  have  written,  carved,  phi- 


RALPH   WALDO   EMERSON.  21 

losophized,  warred,  triumphed,  governed  ever  so  nobly, 

—  they  are  dead  while  we  live !  Had  I  never  heard 
of  them  I  should  exist  nevertheless,  and  the  breath  of 
spring  dehght  me,  and  love  and  passion  stir  my  soul. 
Shall  I  grow  speechless  listening  to  that  which  was 
said  ere  I  was  born  ?  AYliat  matters  it  to  me  whether 
I  am  the  epigone  of  a  vanished  age  or  the  precursor 
-of  a  coming  one  ?  keystone  or  foundation,  last  spark 
in  the  dead  ashes  or  first  faint  ghmmer  in  the  rosy 
dawn  of  the  future  ?  Is  this  seed-corn  the  last  product 
of  a  fast  perishing  plant  or  the  germ  of  a  new  one  just 
unfoldmg  ?  Why  burden  my  soul  with  knowledge  I 
shall  never  use,  or  wear  myself  out  over  things  whose 
utihty  I  do  not  perceive  ?  Learning  is  to  many  but  a 
vain  possession ;  like  the  Persian  slaves  on  the  sea- 
strand,  they  sit  lashing  the  waves  with  their  small 
rods.  It  is  all  useless  labor;  the  sea  rolls  on  unheed- 
ing. Stone  upon  stone,  we  burden  ourselves  from  youth 
upward  with  an  ever-increasing  pile  of  knowledge, 
and  when  the  moment  comes  for  action  must  dislodge 
and  free  ourselves  from  some  of  it  before  we  can  take 
one  step  forward.  Instead  of  acquiring  a  few  things 
in  the  schools,  and  these  few  thoroughly,  —  because  to 
know  one  thing  well  is  the  basis  for  future  knowledge, 

—  we  have  innumerable  things  driven  into  our  heads 
by  main  force,  in  which  to  parade  about  for  a  while, 
until,  God  be  thanked !  in  later  years  we  have  managed 
to  forget  them  all. 

It  is  an  art  to  rise  above  what  we  have  been  taught. 


22  RALPH   WALDO   EMERSON. 

Mechanical  knowledge  is  simply  the  ladder  by  which 
to  attain  command  of  ideas  which  are  not  acquired, 
nor  can  they  be  imparted  in  the  common  mechanical 
fashion.  All  great  men  are  seen  to  possess  this  free- 
dom. They  derive  their  standard  from  their  own 
natures,  and  their  observations  on  life  are  so  natural 
and  spontaneous  that  it  would  seem  as  if  the  most 
illiterate  person  with  a  scrap  of  common  sense  would 
have  made  the  same.  Instead  of  towering  above  us, 
they  seem  to  place  us  above  them,  and  unperceived  to 
cloak  our  ignorance ;  we  become  wiser  with  them,  and 
know  not  how  the  difficult  appears  easy  and  the  in- 
volved plain ;  but  in  such  a  way  that  it  would  seem  as 
if  it  had  been  always  plain,  and  we  had  only  been  led 
into  confusion  by  others. 

Emerson  possesses  this  noble  manner  of  commu- 
nicating himself.  He  inspires  me  with  courage  and 
confidence.  He  has  read  and  seen,  but  conceals  the 
labor.  I  meet  in  his  works  plenty  of  familiar  facts, 
but  he  does  not  employ  them  to  figure  up  anew  the 
old  worn-out  problems :  each  stands  on  a  new  spot 
and  serves  for  new  combinations.  From  everything 
he  sees  the  direct  line  issuing  which  connects  it  with 
the  focus  of  life. 

What  I  had  scarcely  ventured  to  thmk,  because  it 
struck  me  as  all  too  bold,  Emerson  presents  as  serenely 
as  if  it  were  an  every-day  idea,  and  is  so  very  natural 
that  it  would  seem  as  if  it  could  not  be  otherwise. 

He  is  a  perfect  swimmer  in  the  element  of  modern 


EALPII   WALDO   EMERSON.  23 

life.  He  has  no  fear  of  the  storms  of  the  future,  for 
he  sees  beyond,  and  the  rest  which  will  follow  them : 
he  hates  nothing,  contradicts  nothing,  contests  nothing, 
for  his  understanding  of  men  and  their  faults  is  too 
great,  his  love  for  them  too  mighty.  I  cannot  follow 
his  steps  with  other  than  the  inmost  reverence,  and  I 
observe  with  admiration  how  at  his  touch  the  chaotic 
elements  of  modern  life  are  gently  and  dispassionately 
resolved  into  order  and  relegated  to  their  different 
provinces.  Had  I  found  a  single  sentence  in  his 
writings  which  must  be  excepted  from  this  judgment 
I  should  have  begun  to  doubt  the  whole,  and  would 
not  have  ventured  to  utter  a  word ;  but  long  acquaint- 
ance has  made  me  sure,  and  I  feel  in  thinking  of  this 
man  that  in  olden  times  there  really  may  have  been 
teachers  with  whom  their  scholars  indissolubly  linked 
their  destiny,  because  without  the  inspiration  of  the 
chosen  master  everything  seemed  unreal  and  question- 
able. I  will  not  say  that  I  have  surrendered  myself 
with  this  blind  devotion.  Emerson  is  an  American,  \ 
and  the  nationahty  of  his  people  has  not  yet  had  time 
to  ripen  and  mellow  like  our  own ;  what  answers  for 
them  cannot  so  unconditionally  be  accepted  as  useful 
and  applicable  to  us.  As  a  character  Emerson  appears 
to  me  greater  than  when  regarded  as  an  author  only. 

It  is  certainly  no  misfortune  that,  as  concerns  intel- 
lectual things,  while  a  false  reputation  is  so  cheaply 
won  the  real  should  remain  difficult  of  attainment. 
Here  neither  gold  nor  persuasion  will  avail.     Before 


24  RALPH   WALDO   EMERSON. 

we  acknowleflge  the  overwhelming  power  of  an  au- 
thor we  resist  with  might  and  main  and  seek  every 
possible  loop-hole  of  escape.  We  cannot  make  up  our 
minds  to  it ;  with  the  dead,  yes ;  with  the  living,  not 
at  any  price.  We  do  not  willingly  consider  ourselves 
inferior  to  anybody.  If  a  writer  claims  nothing  more 
than  the  current  recognition  of  the  moment,  this  is 
granted  without  stint  or  hesitation,  —  that  is  to  say, 
he  is  talked  about,  praised,  admired,  and  those  who 
are  to  give  the  final  judgment,  from  which  there  will 
be  no  appeal,  allow  the  thing  to  take  its  course,  or 
even  consent  lightly  thereto,  keeping  the  back-door 
open  all  the  while  through  which  to  retire,  and  with 
the  feehug  that  we  could  probably  do  without  this 
man,  but  that  we  must  wait  until  the  noise  subsides 
to  see  what  remains.  Should  any,  however,  try  to  cut 
off  their  retreat  they  are  on  their  mettle  instantly 
and  rebel.  One  does  not  so  easily  give  up  his  freedom. 
In  the  first  case  he  was  the  Grand  Seigneur,  and  such 
praise  as  he  consented  to  give  a  gracious  benefaction ; 
in  the  second  one  he  is  a  receiver  of  alms,  —  the  man 
does  not  need  our  thanks,  our  praise  is  indifferent  to 
him ;  we  receive  and  enjoy,  and  are  ashamed  that  we 
can  give  nothing  in  return. 

Emerson,  however,  has  not  yet  placed  us  in  this 
dilemma.  He  is  as  good  as  unknown  among  us  in 
Germany.  The  translation  of  his  Essays  is  a  labor 
which  will  not  soon  be  accomplished ;  nothing  ever 
cost  me  so  much  trouble  as  the  attempt   I  made  to 


KALPII   WALDO   EMERSON.  25 

translate  some  things  in  his  works  into  German.  He 
does  not  write,  he  seems  to  speak ;  at  first  one  can 
detect  no  plan,  no  order,  and  we  seek  wonderingly  for 
the  hidden  connection  in  these  sentences,  which  seem 
to  stand  so  detached  and  alien  to  one  another,  although 
in  reality  forming  a  closely  linked  chain.  Soon,  how- 
ever, we  discover  the  deep  underlying  law  according 
to  which  these  thoughts  are  evolved,  and  the  strict 
sequence,  notwithstanding  that  at  the  outset  they 
digress  right  and  left  from  the  straight  way  until  they 
seem  lost  to  sight  in  the  fields.  It  is  not  the  law  by 
which  a  tree  is  artificially  reared  on  an  espalier,  when 
the  gardener  commands  exactly  where  the  branches 
shall  grow  and  which  shall  be  lopped  off,  but  that 
of  a  healthy  beech,  throwing  out  its  branches  in  all 
directions,  and  apparently  in  the  wildest  disorder,  but 
uniting  them  to  form  a  beautiful  canopy  over  our 
heads,  in  which  not  the  tiniest  twig  is  unnecessary 
or  out  of  place. 

Some  time  ago  I  found  Emerson's  Essays  in  the 
hands  of  a  lady  whom  I  had  formerly  besought  in 
vain  to  interest  herself  in  them.  She  had  always  a 
thousand  excuses  for  not  reading  the  book,  and  tried 
to  prove  to  me  that  we  already  possessed  it  all,  and 
much  more,  in  Goethe,  —  that  we  really  did  not  need 
Emerson,  even  if  he  were  indeed  such  as  I  represented 
him.  Besides,  she  had  read  some  of  the  things,  and 
found  them  quite  every-day  matter,  —  thoughts  she 
had    long   entertained   herself,    but   never   expressed. 


^ 


26  EALPH   WALDO   EMEKSOX. 

As  far  as  G-oethe  was  concerned,  she  was  not  entirely 
in  the  wrong ;  this  man's  genius,  which  was  mighty 
enough  to  turn  thousands  of  mills  and  water-wheels, 
exists  for  most  people  only  in  the  fountains  and  small 
cascades  in  which  they  occasionally  rejoice. 

In  short,  Emerson  remained  unread.  But  now  sud- 
denly she  reopened  the  subject  herself.  "  He  was 
truly,  after  all,"  she  said,  "  very  remarkable.  He  some- 
times made  wonderfully  simple  observations  which  yet 
disentangled  the  most  intricate  trains  of  thought."  I 
listened  quietly,  and  acquiesced.  Not  long  after  she 
took  me  seriously  to  task,  and  imparted  her  admiration 
for  the  man  in  such  a  forcible  manner,  that  I  sat  there 
as  if  I  were  the  one  to  be  converted.  She  grew  quite 
impatient  when  I  did  not  echo  her  words,  and  gave  me 
to  understand  that  in  the  end  she  comprehended  him 
better,  and  felt  him  more  deeply,  than  I  did. 

This  experience  has  been  repeated.  AVith  secret 
pleasure  I  have  once  or  twice  submitted  to  be  in- 
structed as  to  Emerson's  value.  With  astonislunent 
I  see  how  he  overcomes,  sooner  or  later,  all  his  adver- 
saries, and  listen  to  the  objections  made  to  him.  The 
old  experience  is  here  confirmed,  —  that  but  very  few 
people  are  really  capable  of  taking  a  synthetic  as  well 
as  analytic  view  of  character.  For  the  most  part 
they  fall  upon  separate  traits  here  and  there,  or  at 
the  best  succeed  only  in  connecting  two  or  three  ;  the 
majority  of  readers  pick  out  a  few  sentences  like 
single  fish   from  a  great  net  where   they  had  been 


EALPH   WALDO   EMERSON.  27 

floundering  about,  and  first  sort  and  arrange  them  in 
their  own  way  in  order  to  know  what  they  possess. 
The  result  is  fiat  contradictions,  falsities,  half  truths, 
iridescences,  affectations,  attempts  at  wit,  worn-out 
truisms,  the  superfluous  magnified  into  the  important, 
—  everj-^where  blame  and  fault-finding  in  the  richest 
measure.  Through  it  all,  however,  they  are  impressed 
with  the  pure  genius  of  the  man;  with  the  entire 
absence  of  vanity  in  his  appearance ;  with  the  earnest- 
ness of  his  convictions,  and,  greatest  of  all,  with  his 
love  for  the  human  race,  which  renders  his  words 
fruitful  and  ennobhng. 

I  doubt  not  that  this  feeling  will  spread  further 
and  sink  more  deeply,  and  that  to  a  thorough  appre- 
ciation of  this  character  will  succeed  the  comprehen- 
sion and  need  of  his  works. 


SECOND   ESSAY, 

WRITTEN    AFTER    THE    DEATH    OF    EMERSON. 

The  Americans  have  the  advantage  of  us  in  the  use 

of  their  daily  press.  When  upon  Longfellow's  death 
I  read  the  New  York  and  Boston  papers,  it  struck  me 
how  intimate  the  relation  was  between  those  who  have 
something  to  say  and  those  who  are  willing  to  listen. 
The  Tribune,  like  New  York  itself,  was  for  some  days 
absorbed  with  Longfellow.     A  series  of  articles  poured 


28  RALPH   WALDO    EMERSON. 

forth  about  the  man  whose  loss  affected  every  home, 
and  of  whom  so  many  had  something  to  relate.  A 
mnltitude  of  witnesses  freely  testified,  and  the  assem- 
bled piibhc  constitvited,  as  it  were,  a  jury  to  listen  to 
all  that  could  be  said  concerning  Longfellow.  Justice 
was  done  to  every  kind  of  opinion,  and  from  the  varied 
contributions  each  chose  the  one  most  in  harmony 
with  his  own.  The  hke  experience  is  now  repeated 
with  Emerson.  Emerson  had  attended  Longfellow's 
funeral.  On  the  27th  of  April  the  telegraph  brought 
over  the  tidmgs  of  his  death ;  fourteen  days  later  the 
newspapers  followed,  and  again  on  every  page  his 
name  alone  held  the  first  place. 

.  Between  Longfellow  and  Emerson,  however,  a  great 
distinction  prevailed  in  all  that  was  said.  To  Long- 
fellow was  awarded  the  high  position  he  deserved,  and 
the  laurels  were  not  stinted.  The  criticisms  ring  out 
perfectly  clear  and  sure.  Longfellow  was  a  poet,  and 
his  place  in  the  literary  world  had  often  been  discussed. 
There  could  be  no  question  as  to  what  was  his  due. 
With  Emerson  the  tone  in  which  men  spoke  ranged  at 
once  higher  and  lower.  It  sounded  as  if  something  re- 
mained unexpressed.  The  effect  of  Emerson's  writings 
and  his  personality  struck  deeper  than  Longfellow's, 
but  was  not  so  perceptible  in  its  breadth.  Emerson 
bore  no  official  title  to  stamp  him  in  the  eyes  of  men. 
1  He  began  as  a  preacher,  resigned  the  pulpit,  and  with- 
'  drew  as  a  writer  into  a  kind  of  solitude  in  which  he 
remained.     Now  he  is  called  by  one  an  essayist,  by 


RALPH   WALDO   EMERSON.  29 

another  a  philosopher,  by  a  third  a  poet,  and-^by  many 
all  these  unitedly, — while  others,  still  diss?^fied,  aay 
"Emerson  was  a  prophet."  In  this,  however,  all  agree, 
that  Emerson  was  one  of  the  greatest  men  America 
has  produced.  But  this  being  accepted,  it  seems  un- 
necessary to  try  to  emphasize  it,  and  it  may  be  com- 
mitted to  future  generations  to  prove  in  detail  the 
ground  for  this  conviction.  One  of  the  discourses  on 
Emerson  begins  with  these  words :  "  Only  Shakespeare 
can  be  named  with  Emerson."  To  whom  would  it  ever 
occur  to  say  so  much  of  Longfellow?  It  would  be 
natural  to  suppose  that  after  such  an  opening  the 
speaker  would  proceed  to  verify  the  statement,  instead 
of  which  the  discourse  flows  on  in  such  measured  tone 
that  it  would  seem  as  if  no  proof  were  required,  for 
every  one  had  known  it,  and  needed  only  to  be  re- 
minded of  it.  In  all  that  I  have  read  of  Emerson  it 
is  taken  for  granted  that  each  American  knows  him, 
and  knows  what  the  country  had  m  him  and  has  lost 
in  him. 

Of  the  events  of  Emerson's  life  there  is  little  to  be 
said.  His  hfe  was  not  romantic,  —  no  extraordinary 
light  rendered  him  conspicuous.  Even  a  chronological 
setting  of  his  works  is  unnecessary,  for  they  are  almost 
without  exception  of  the  same  kind,  and  no  one  of 
them  had  instantaneous  success.  Nature,  although  the 
book  (if  we  can  so  call  the  extended  essay)  produced  a 
great  sensation,  required  twelve  years  for  the  sale  of  five 
hundred  copies.     It  is  considered  by  many  Emerson's 


30  RALPH   WALDO   EMERSON. 

greatest  essay.  It  certainly  shows  his  peculiar  way  of 
grasping  his  subject  in  full  perfection,  and  is  best  cal- 
culated to  introduce  us  to  his  views.  Emerson  starts 
with  a  leading  idea  which  agitated  America  before  it 
stirred  us.  But  with  us  also  to-day  the  question  arises, 
How  is  it  going  to  be  possible  for  coming  generations 
to  deal  with  the  enormous  mass  of  intellectual  produC'^ 
tion, — heir-loom  of  centuries,  and  which  increases  each 
day  in  more  gigantic  proportions,  without  injury  to 
their  legitimate  work  ?  Our  best  powers  barely  suffice 
to  enable  us  to  glance  over  what  has  been  already 
accomplished.  It  would  be  hailed  as  a  blessing  if  some 
one  could  convince  us  that  the  heritage  of  our  ances- 
tors is  to  be  set  aside,  that  untrammelled  we  may  press 
on  to  the  goal  before  us. 

When  intellectual  resources  of  their  own  began  to 
accumulate  in  America,  this  question  caused  more 
solicitude  than  with  us,  from  the  fact  that  their  backs 
had  not  been  trained  to  bend  under  the  burden.  Emer- 
son's essay  on  Nature  sprang  from  the  feelings  of  a 
man  who  had  entered  deeply  enough  into  European  lit- 
erature to  be  able  to  measure  what  might  be  lost  in  the 
acquisition  of  these  riches.  Emerson  wished  his  people 
should  preserve  the  advantage  they  had  of  exercising 
unfettered  criticism  on  past  events,  and  not  allow 
themselves  to  be  dwarfed  under  the  weight  of  history  / 
and  traditions  sent  over  to  them  from  the  Old  Worldi 
"Our  age,"  Nature  begins,  "is  retrospective.  It  builds 
the  sepulchres  of  the  fathers.     It  writes  biographies, 


RALPH   WALDO    EMERSON.  31 

histories,  and  criticism.  The  foregoing  generations 
beheld  God  and  nature  face  to  face ;  we,  through  their 
eyes,  ^^^ly  should  not  we  also  enjoy  an  original 
relation  to  the  universe  ?  "WTiy  should  not  we  have 
a  poetry  and  a  philosophy  of  insight  and  not  of 
tradition,  and  a  religion  by  revelation  to  us,  and  not 
the  history  of  theirs  ?  Embosomed  for  a  season  in 
nature,  whose  floods  of  life  stream  around  and  through 
us,  and  invite  us  by  the  powers  they  supply  to  action 
proportioned  to  nature,  why  should  we  grope  among 
the  dry  bones  of  the  past,  or  put  the  living  generation 
into  masquerade  out  of  its  faded  wardrobe  ?  The  sun 
shines  to-day  also.  There  is  more  wool  and  flax  in 
the  fields.  There  are  new  lands,  new  men,  new 
thoughts.  Let  us  demand  our  own  works  and  laws 
and  worship."  And  now  Emerson  develops  what  he 
calls  his  "theory  of  nature,"  or  life,  or  creation,  not  in 
the  sense  of  exact  science,  but  bringing  all  the  visible 
into  a  simple  category,  and  placing  the  man  of  our  age 
in  the  midst  of  it  as  the  controlling  power.  How  truly 
Emerson  anticipated  what  is  now  the  predominant  idea 
in  America,  or  how  far  his  teachings  have  passed  into 
the  flesh  and  blood  of  the  American,  is  shown  by  the 
nature  of  scientific  activity  there  at  present.  We  start 
I  with  the  single  aim  of  pursuing  science  for  its  own 
sake,  certainly  the  higher  stand-point;  in  America  it  is 

(studied  chiefly  with  a  view  to  what  will  be  most  ser- 
viceable to  the  learner, — in  many  cases  the  better  way 
of  attaining  practical  results.     Eirst,  shall  the  living 
(have  justice  done  them? 


32  EALni   WALDO   EMERSOX. 

I  received  to-day  the  last  annual  register  of  Cornell 
University,  which  was  founded  by  the  private  citizen 
whose  name  it  bears.  On  the  title-page  of  the  register 
Cornell's  portrait  is  given,  with  the  inscription  around 
it,  "  I  wish  to  found  an  institution  in  which  every  one 
can  be  instructed  in  every  way."  Under  the  general 
title,  "Departments  and  special  courses  of  study,"  I 
find  in  the  book  a  section  which  offers  a  choice  of 
prescribed  plans  of  study  adapted  to  prepare  the 
scholars  for  their  different  positions  in  life.  "With 
the  exception  of  theology  and  jurisprudence,  everv'thing 
requiring  scientific  training,  from  agriculture  up  to 
science  and  letters,  is  included.  With  profound  under- 
standing of  the  national  character,  a  number  of  careers 
are  marked  out  before  the  eyes  of  the  student  and 
the  steps  given  by  which  he  may  advance.  I  take 
this  example  because  it  happens  to  offer  itself ;  but  who- 
ever has  had  opportunity  to  become  acquainted  with 
American  professors  and  students  will  have  remarked 
their  simple  method  of  beginning  directly  with  the 
essentials  and  the  imconstrained  freshness  and  courage 
with  which  they  explore  new  paths,  always  finding  the 
way  to  their  aim.  The  American  endeavors  to  com- 
prehend everything,  and  without  the  loss  of  time  to 
adapt  all  to  his  own  use.  Emerson's  theorj^  is  that  of 
the  "sovereignty  of  the  indi\'idual."  To  discover  what 
a  young  man  is  good  for,  and  to  equip  him  for  the  path 
he  is  to  strike  out  in  life,  regardless  of  any  other  con- 
sideration, is  the  great  duty  to  which  he  calls  atten- 


RALPH   WALDO   EMERSON.  33 

tion.  Emerson's  essays  are  written  with  reference  to 
this  aim.  He  makes  men  self-rehant.  He  reveals  to 
the  eyes  of  the  idealist  the  magnificent  results  of 
practical  activity,  and  unfolds  before  the  reahst  the 
grandeur  of  the  ideal  world  of  thought.  No  man  is  to 
allow  himself,  through  prejudice,  to  make  a  mistake 
in  choosing  the  task  to  which  he  will  devote  his  Ufe. 
Emerson's  essays  are,  as  it  were,  printed  sermons,  —  all 
having  this  same  text.  The  transition  from  preacher 
to  independent  lecturer  was  not  in  itself  considered  an 
unnatural  one  in  America;  they  are  behmd  us  in  thei 
production  of  thought,  but  the  interchange  of  ideas  is 
much  more  eager  and  rapid.  Emerson  had  a  grea_t 
predecessor,  whom  I  name  here  because  it  will  help 
us  to  understand  what  limited  him  in  his  ministry. 
Channing,  the  apostle  of  Unitarianism,  had  been  at 
first  only  a  preacher.  But  Channing  knew  how  to 
control  and  awe  a  vast  congregation,  while  Emerson 
loved  best  to  speak  or  lecture  to  a  few  chosen  disciples. 
His  words  did  not  sound  above  the  discords  of  a  crowd, 
but  exacted  reverential  silence.  There  was  nothing  in 
his  words  any  more  than  in  his  appearance  that  could 
kindle  any  definite  thought.  He  only  indicated  the 
direction  in  which  one  must  move. 

To  the  charm  of  his  presence  many  now  testify. 
Carlyle  said  a  supernal  vision  dawned  on  him  when  he 
first  saw  Ealph  Waldo  Emerson.  Some  one  relates 
that  when  as  a  boy  in  the  midst  of  his  companions  he 
once  casually  bowed  to  Emerson,  who  was  about  to 


34  EALPH   WALDO   EMEKSON. 

pass  them  in  the  street,  he  returned  the  simple  greeting 
in  a  way  he  could  never  forget.  "  Say  to  Emerson  that 
I  love  and  honor  him,"  were  Sumner's  words  on  liis 
death-bed.  The  earhest  notice  of  Emerson  that  I  find 
is  in  the  letters  of  Frederika  Bremer,  who  visited  him 
in  Concord  somewhere  about  1830.  She  grants  that  he 
remained  to  her  a  problem.  At  first  she  regarded  his 
cool,  incisive  way  of  criticising  everything  as  arrogant, 
but  says  at  the  same  time  that  his  nature  made  an 
utterly  different  impression  on  her  from  that  of  other 
arrogant  natures  she  had  met  with.  "  There  dwells  in 
this  man  a  loftier  spirit,"  she  concludes.  This  was 
before  the  times,  we  recall  to-day,  when  Emerson's 
writings  caused  the  young  people  sleepless  nights. 
As  Emerson  himself  said  of  Carlyle,  his  sentences 
indeed  enchain  us ;  they  do  not  seem  to  be  written,  but 
graven  on  links  of  steel,  as  if  Emerson  had  had  a  pre- 
sentiment they  were  destined  to  last  for  centuries.  It 
is  not  usual  to  speak  of  the  immortality  of  men  while 
they  still  live;  but  Whittier  years  ago  expressed  his 
belief  in  these  words:  "No  verses  written  in  the 
Enghsh  language  by  any  of  the  living  poets  bear  so 
clearly  imprinted  upon  them  the  stamp  of  immortality 
as  Emerson's."  The  tribute  to  Emerson  by  the  re- 
nowned poet  is  echoed  by  hundreds  this  side  of 
the  water  as  well  as  in  America,  whose  youthful 
souls  were  stimulated  to  their  highest  and  best  efforts 
by  the  peculiar  inspiration  of  his  words.  Nobler  hom- 
a^e  cannot  be  offered   from  man    to  his   fellow-man. 


RALPH   WALDO   EMERSON.  \v     r^,  3^^'^"''-^ 

V  Therefore  was  it  nowise  astounding  to  read  in  the 
1  papers  the  simple  statement,  as  if  it  were  a  fixed 
I  historical  fact,  that  it  was  Emerson  who  had  shaped 
•  the  intellectual  life  of  this  century  in  America. 

I  became  acquainted  with  Emerson's  writings  long 
years  since,  when  I  was  young,  and  scarcely  knew 
enough  of  English  to  force  my  way  to  an  understand- 
ing of  them.  Never  have  I  studied  a  language  with 
such  zeal  as  at  that  time.  It  often  seemed  to  me 
impossible  to  fathom  the  meaning  of  his  sentences. 
I  do  not  know  what  impression  these  writings  would 
make  upon  me  now,  thirty  years  later,  if  they  were 
put  in  my  hands  for  the  first  time.  Time  hardens  us, 
and  we  are  less  hospitable  to  new  ideas.  But  I  had 
the  feeling  then  that,  as  far  as  my  knowledge  went,  no 
one  had  said  such  things,  or  said  them  in  such  a  way, 
as  Emerson.  A  sunny  view  of  hfe  radiated  from  him, 
—  a  simile  I  have  often  smce  heard  repeated.  He 
seemed  to  me  to  give  utterance  to  the  noblest  contem- 
plations on  the  past  and  the  present.  I  attempted  to 
study  Emerson  critically,  but  did  not  succeed.  There 
dwelt  within  him  a  hidden  power,  which  seemed  his 
alone.  A  picture  of  Giotto  in  Assisi  exhibits  St.  Fran- 
cis restoring  to  life  a  woman  who  had  died  uncon- 
fessed,  but  only  long  enough  for  him  to  receive  her 
confession.  The  woman  Hfts  herself  from  the  bier 
while  he  bends  down  to  her.  And  in  like  manner 
Emerson  animates  whatever  he  touches,  giving  to 
Nature  a  voice  that  she  may  communicate  her  secrets, 


36  EALPH  WALDO   EMEKSON. 

and  we  believe  that  he  knows  much  more  of  them 
than  he  tells.  Emerson  has  an  mcomprehensible  way 
of  inspiring  the  reader  with  the  feehng  of  the  matter 
without  giving  it  a  name  or  describing  it,  and  without 
the  art  by  which  this  is  accomplished  being  anywhere 
perceptible.  Allow  me  another  comparison:  As  the 
night-wind  passing  through  the  woods  and  over  the 
meadows  comes  to  us  laden  with  the  sweet  breath  of 
trees  and  grasses  and  flowers  which  we  have  not  seen, 
Emerson  surrounds  us  with  the  atmosphere  of  things 
as  if  they  were  in  reality  near  us.  WTiat  was  then  my 
inmost  conviction  regarding  Emerson's  writings  I  have 
lived  to  hear  expressed  by  many,  and  as  if  from  the 
outset  no  one  had  held  a  different  opinion.  Goethe 
says,  "  It  is  impossible  to  show  the  day  to  the  day." 
He  means  that  the  secret  of  the  present  is  never  laid 
bare  to  the  present,  namely,  the  continuity  and  relation 
of  the  ever-varying  experiences,  through  whose  mazes 
the  human  race  like  a  vast  herd  is  perpetually  urged 
forward  by  a  watchful  Providence.  We  recognize  this 
unseen  force,  and  obey,  timidly  asking  whither  and 
whence?  Everywhere  is  heard  the  cry:  we  recognize 
it,  but  no  one  beheves  in  help  from  any  of  the  voices. 
Emerson  never  asserted  that  he  knew  more  than 
others,  but  his  writings  inspire  the  feeling  that  it 
must  be  so,  and  excite  a  hope  that  we  may  possibly 
draw  from  them  answers  to  questions  with  which  we 
had  not  consciously  dealt.  His  words  seem  to  me  at 
different  times   to   be   capable   of   different    interpre- 


RALPH   WALDO   EMERSON.  37 

tations.  Many  times  have  his  thoughts  presented 
themselves  to  my  mind  like  single  verses  of  an  infinite 
poem  whose  design  had  still  to  be  fully  revealed,  even 
to  himself. 

I  had  not  glanced  at  Emerson's  writings  for  many 
a  year ;  when  the  telegram  came  with  the  tidings  of 
his  death,  I  took  down  the  two-volumed  edition  of  his 
works,  given  me  by  George  Bancroft,  opened  them,  and 
read.  The  wealth  and  harmony  of  his  language  over- 
powered and  entranced  me  anew.  But  even  now  I 
cannot  say  wherein  the  secret  of  his  influence  hes. 
It  is  of  a  wholly  individual  nature.  What  he  has 
"written  is  like  life  itself,  —  the  unbroken  thread  ever 
lengthened  through  tlie  addition  of  the  small  events 
which  make  up  each  day's  experience.  His  sentences 
often  flow  on  monotonously  and  unaccented.  They 
are  series  of  thoughts.  He  begins  as  if  continuing  a 
discourse  whose  opening  we  had  not  heard,  and  ends 
as  if  only  pausing  to  take  breath  before  going  on. 
Some  one  tells  of  calling  on  him  the  day  before  he 
was  to  lecture.  He  found  him  surrounded  by  papers, 
from  which  he  was  selectmg  and  putting  together 
whatever  was  appropriate  to  his  subject.  It  does  not 
detract  from  the  value  of  his  writings  that  their  crea- 
tion was  a  matter  of  chance.  If  we  were  to  print 
them  all  together  —  the  introductions  excepted — we 
should  see  them  forming  a  chain  in  which  no  links 
were  missing.  It  would  be  like  a  panorama  of  ideas, 
for  each  minute  with  him  seems  to  have  borne  its  pecu- 


38  RALPH   WALDO   EMERSON. 

liar  fruit.  We  feel  that  Emerson  never  wished  to  say 
more  than  just  what  at  the  moment  presented  itself 
to  his  soul.  He  never  set  up  a  system ;  never  de- 
fended himself.  He  speaks  as  if  he  had  never  been 
assailed ;  as  if  all  men  were  his  friends,  and  held  the 
same  opinions  as  himself.  He  is  never  hasty,  and 
always  impartial.  He  labors  after  no  effects  in  style. 
He  speaks  with  perfect  composure,  as  if  translating 
from  a  language  understood  only  by  himself.  He 
always  addresses  the  same  public,  —  the  unknown  mul- 
titude of  those  who  buy  and  read  his  works  and  wish 
to  listen  to  him, — and  ever  in  the  same  tone  of  manly 
affability. 

Nothing,  however,  is  more  comprehensible  than  that 
a  man  so  conducting  himself  should  be  declared  a  pure 
idealist,  —  ix  dilettante  who  only  floats  above  our  earthly 
tabernacles  because  he  is  nowhere  really  at  home. 
Eeproaches  of  this  nature  Emerson  has  not  escaped,  for 
toward  no  one  is  the  world,  with  justice,  so  sharp  and 
merciless  as  to  the  man  who  requires  of  us  implicit 
faith  in  his  highest  thoughts.  But  the  superfluity 
of  knowledge  of  every  kind  which  Emerson  utilizes 
is  no  longer  regarded  as  the  machinery  with  which 
a  vain  speaker  seeks  to  surprise  or  attract  the  public. 
It  is  now  perceived  that  when  Emerson  presents  an 
antithesis,  the  antithesis  exists  in  reality.  Nature  her- 
self surprises  us  with  dazzling  lights  and  illumination. 

Emerson's  career  is  now  ended.  The  attempt  to 
classify  him  will  repeatedly  be  made.     At  present  the 


EALPII   WALDO   EMERSON.  39 

I  American  people  feel  only  his  loss.     Emerson  was  one 
of  the  representatives  of  the  national  conscience.     The 
various  means  of  intercourse  to-day  bring  the  inhabi- 
tants of  a  great  country  into  more  sympathetic  rela- 
tions than  formerly  existed  between  those  environed 
by  the  walls  of  a  single  city.     There  was  more  reserve"^ 
in  the  old  days,  when  men  persecuted  each  other  more  i 
for  differences  of  opinion.     Emerson  was  to  many  the  \ 
highest  moral  tribunal,  and  his  existence  a  comfort  in , 
the  land.     By  his  death  America  is  not  only  impov-' 
erished  by  the  loss  of  her  greatest  man,  but  at  the  j 
same  time  regards  Emerson  as  almost  the  last  of  a  1 
series  of  men  who  seem  to  have  died  out  with  him,  \ 
He  and  Longfellow  were  the  participators  m  a  great 
intellectual   movement  which   finds  its   historic  close 
with  them.     But  Emerson  himself  prepared  the  way 

■  for  the  transition  to  what  now  takes  the  place  of  the 
animus  of  those  earlier  days.  He  no  longer  addressed 
himself  by  preference  to  those  who  read  or  have  read, 
but  to  those  who  only  have  ears  to  hear.  Bret  Harte 
describes  in  one  of  his  stories  the  little  house  of  an 
emigrant  in  the  far  West,  where  the  sole  intellectual 
store  consisted  of  an  edition  of  Shakespeare,  and  Emer- 
son's portrait  on  the  wall.  We  have  already  found 
Emerson  placed  beside  Shakespeare,  and  he  indeed 
resembles  him  in  so  far  that  he  can  be  understood 
without  preparation.  In  the  same  sense  also  it  is 
said  that,  though  he  has  written  comparatively  little 
verse,  he  was,  properly  speaking,  a  poet  rather  than 


40  RALPH  WALDO   EMERSON. 

a  philosopher.  If  we  admit  the  comparison  with 
Shakespeare,  we  may  refer  to  his  spontaneity  and 
wealth  of  thought,  as  well  as  his  aptitude  in  the  use 
of  similes  drawn  directly,  it  would  seem,  from  his  own 
experience,  and  the  absence  of  prejudice  of  any  and 
every  kind.  He  is  to  be  compared  with  Goethe  in 
his  endeavor  to  possess  himself  of  everything  in  the 
realm  of  science,  and  his  inclination  —  in  spite  of  his 
association  with  scholars  —  to  hold  himself  aloof  from 
them,  although  never  tempted  to  put  himself  in  oppo- 
sition to  them.  In  the  ai-sthetic-political  import  of 
his  writings  he  reminds  us  of  Schiller,  as  well  as  by 
the  democratic  sentiment  which  shines  forth  from  the 
works  of  both.  Emerson,  like  Schiller,  beheved  in 
the  superiority  of  the  guileless,  ideal  man  over  the 
man  of  statecraft  and  intrigue.  Schiller  inspires  us 
to-day  with  the  prospect  of  a  great  future,  and  with 
the  certainty  of  the  final  appearance  of  a  simple 
heroic  people,  each  of  whom,  like  Wallenstein's  Max, 
will  look  down  with  contempt  on  our  present  artifice 
and  cunning.  The  coming  of  this  people  Emerson 
also  predicted  to  his  compatriots.  In  another  respect 
Emerson  resembles  Schiller.  He  stood  ready  to  hft 
his  voice  whenever,  wherever  it  was  needed,  and 
unhesitatingly  came  to  the  front  in  emergencies  of 
all  kinds,  whilst  Goethe  only  interfered  in  matters 
congenial  to  his  nature,  and  postponed  the  rest. 

Like   St.  Augustine,   Enierson   treats   of   the   most 
subtile   themes   without   lowering  his   voice,  and  in 


EALPII   WALDO   EMEKSON.  41 

such  a  free,  unconstrained  way  as  to  be  attractive  even 
to  a  child.  With  marvellous  penetration  he  reduces 
the  most  involved  questions  to  simple  forms.  This  is 
especially  conspicuous  in  English  Traits,  which  was 
written  after  having  twice  visited  England.  The  phe- 
nomena of  English  life  are  traced  back  to  the  char- 
acter and  constitution  of  the  race,  together  with  the 
natural  quaUties  of  the  soil.  I  have  never  heard  a 
country  and  a  people  more  clearly  described,  and  the 
value  of  the  book  is  recognized  on  both  sides  of 
the  ocean.  The  low  estimate  of  foreigners  among  the 
English  is  proverbial,  but  they  seem  to  have  made  an 
exception  in  favor  of  Emerson.  Emerson's  love  of 
truth  rings  out  clearly  in  every  opinion  he  gives. 
"He  was  invested  with  the  hght  of  truth,"  begins  a 
notice  of  him  in  Harper's  Weekly,  and  English  papers 
contain  similar  expressions.  Emerson  says  the  Eng- 
lish is  the  first  nation  in  the  world,  but  ranks  the 
German  intellectually  higher.  The  Enghshman,  he 
says,  looks  at  everything  singly,  and  does  not  know 
how  to  comprehend  humanity  as  a  whole,  accordmg 
to  higher  laws.  He  says,  "The  German  thinks  for 
Europe."  But  what  distinguishes  the  English,  Ameri- 
cans, and  Germans,  —  the  three  people  before  whom, 
in  common,  stand  the  great  problems  of  the  world, — 
is  often  the  subject  of  his  demonstration.  And  here 
we  must  again  mention  Carlyle,  whom  Emerson  has 
been  supposed  to  imitate.  Hero-worship  was  not  an 
original  idea  either  with  Carlyle  or  Emerson.     It  is 


42  EALPH   WALDO  EMERSON. 

in  the  blood  of  English  and  Americans  as  one  of 
their  noblest  capabilities.  It  is  possible  that,  through 
Carlyle,  Emerson  was  inspired  to  write  his  book  on 
BejJresentative  Men ;  but  it  is  a  wholly  different  con- 
ception from  Carlyle's  Heroes.  Carlyle's  labored  and, 
to  our  view,  often  intentionally  pecuhar  style,  can 
never  for  a  moment  be  compared  with  Emerson's. 
And  indeed  the  comparisons  I  have  instituted  be- 
tween Emerson  and  others  apply  only  to  outward  and 
accidental  characteristics.  He  stands  alone,  and  will 
have  a  special  place  in  history.  In  the  introduction 
to  Representative  Men  Emerson  says,  in  praise  of 
great  men,  that  each  is  useful  to  his  people,  in  that 
his  name  enriches  by  a  word  the  vocabulary  of  his 
native  tongue.  In  the  meaning  of  this  "word,"  as 
he  uses  it,  is  contained  an  idea  which  could  not  be 
expressed  by  any  other  phraseology. 

Emerson  dwelt  in  Concord  in  a  small  one-story 
house,  built,  it  would  seem,  chiefly  of  wood.  One 
night  it  took  fire  and  burned  down.  Emerson,  sev- 
enty years  of  age,  suddenly  driven  out  into  the  cold 
night  air,  fell  ill  for  the  first  time  in  his  life.  His 
friends  suggested  to  him  that  he  should  go  abroad 
to  reinstate  his  health,  the  intention  being  during 
his  absence  to  rebuild  his  house.  Emerson  went  over 
California  to  India,  returning  home  by  Egypt  and 
Europe.  He  reached  Italy  in  the  spring  of  1873, 
and  I  saw  him  in  Florence.  A  tall,  slender  figure, 
with  the  radiant  smile  which  is  peculiar  to  children 


RALPH  WALDO   EMERSON.  43 

and  men  of  the  highest  order.  His  daughter  Ellen 
was  his  companion,  and  devoted  to  him.  The  noblest 
culture  raises  men  above  national  peculiarities  and 
makes  them  perfectly  unaffected.  Emerson  had  an 
unpretentious  dignity  of  demeanor,  and  I  felt  as  if 
I  Jiad  always  known  him.  At  that  time  he  was  still 
fresh  and  could  work.  Soon  after  an  infirmity  came 
upon  him.  He  wholly  lost  his  memory.  One  of  my 
former  hearers  wrote  me  an  account  of  his  last  visit 
to  him.  Emerson  sat  there,  says  the  letter,  Hke  an 
old  eagle  in  his  eyrie.  He  greeted  me  in  the  most 
kind  and  friendly  manner,  but  could  no  longer  re- 
member men  or  things.  "It  is  natural  to  believe  in 
great  men,"  begins  the  introduction  to  Emerson's  Rep- 
resentative Men.  "Nature  seems  to  exist  for  the  ex- 
cellent. The  world  is  upheld  by  the  veracity  of  good 
men;  they  make  the  earth  wholesome.  They  who 
have  lived  with  them  found  life  glad  and  nutritious. 
Life  is  sweet  and  tolerable  only  in  our  belief  in  such 
society;  and,  actually  or  ideally,  we  manage  to  live 
with  superiors.  We  call  our  children  and  our  lands 
by  their  names.  Their  names  are  wrought  into  the 
verbs  of  language,  their  works  and  effigies  are  in  our 
houses,  and  every  circumstance  of  the  day  recalls  an 

r  anecdote  of  them.  The  search  after  the  great  is  the 
dream  of  youth,  and  the  most  serious  occupation  of 
manhood.     We  travel  into  foreign   parts   to  find  his 

Lworks,  if  possible,  to  get  a  glimpse  of  him."  The 
words  to-day  sound  like  his  epitaph. 


FRANCE    AND    VOLTAIRE. 

When  Alaric  in  his  Italian  campaign  besieged  Rome, 
the  inhabitants,  reduced  through  pestilence  and  famine 
to  the  last  extremity,  despatched  messengers  to  the 
Gothic  camp.  Instead,  however,  of  quietly  awaiting, 
as  they  should,  the  verdict  of  their  conquerors  in 
whose  hands  their  fate  absolutely  lay,  they  broke  forth 
into  the  most  arrogant  threats,  and  returned  to  the 
city  without  having  accomphshed  anythmg ;  even 
after  Eome  had  actually  fallen  into  the  hands  of  the 
Goths,  the  comparatively  lenient  terms  offered  them 
by  their  victors  were  at  first  rejected  with  contempt. 

Historians  call  it  an  inconceivable  hallucination; 
for  who  could  regard  such  stubbornness  as  patriotism, 
when  the  immeasurable  wretchedness  of  the  pubhc 
condition  was  so  clearly  manifest  ?  The  Eomans  had 
seen  with  their  own  eyes  the  mortal  terror  of  the 
populace  at  the  approach  of  the  enemy,  the  general 
fright,  the  helplessness,  the  want  of  leaders !  Why 
then,  in  this  utter  absence  of  all  power,  such  an  ebul- 
lition of  haughty  pride  ? 

I  will  neither  compare  the  Germans  of  to-day  with 
41 


FRANCE   AND   VOLTAIRE.  45 

the  Goths  under  Alaric,  although  there  could  be  no 
detraction  in  the  comparison  with  this  noble  people, 
nor  the  French  —  especially  the  Parisians  —  with  the 
Itahans  and  Romans  at  that  time.  But  the  extraor- 
dinary view  the  French  took  of  the  last  war  throws  a 
milder,  or  at  all  events  an  explanatory  hght  on  the  con- 
duct of  the  Eomans,  who  in  the  midst  of  ruin  rebelled 
against  the  consciousness  of  being  ruined,  and  also  helps 
us  to  understand  the  behavior  of  the  French  people. 
We  see  that  adversities  of  such  enormous  extent  may  so 
unexpectedly  overwhelm  a  people  that  the  panic-struck 
souls  lose  the  capacity  of  taking  in  what  is  happening 
before  their  very  eyes.  The  Eoman,  without  hope  for 
the  future,  unable  to  govern  or  to  defend  himself,  worn 
out  with  hunger  and  in  the  jaws  of  destruction,  is  yet 
incapable,  either  of  humbly  negotiating  or  of  conceiving 
that  Eome,  which  had  stood  unconquered  more  than  a 
thousand  years,  —  Golden  Imperial  Rome! — could  ever 
be  forced  to  admit  the  barbarian  as  conqueror  within 
her  walls,  and  instead  of  surrendering  he  threatens. 
The  words  of  submission  rebel  against  the  lips  which 
would  drive  them  forth.  The  Roman,  deluded  by  a 
g]orious  past  rising  like  a  Fata  Morgana  before  him, 
could  not  understand  what  was  passing  before  his  eyes. 
And  even  so  in  France  to-day,  though  conquered  and 
prostrate,  the  prisoners  from  so  many  battles  entertain 
but  one  idea,  raise  but  one  cry,  —  "  Betrayed  ! "  The 
Frenchman  has  a  peculiar  organization,  rendering  it 
impossible  for  him  to  imagine  himself  beaten.  Weary, 
hopeless,  and  miserable  he  calls  defeats  victories,  be- 


46  FKANCE   AND   VOLTAIKE. 

lieves  he  can  still  grasp  with  convulsive  hands  Alsace 
and  Lorraine,  and  threatens  to  demand  the  Ehine 
boundary. 

To  be  sure  nobody  could  foresee  the  extent  of  the 
terrible  struggle  into  which  the  French  nation  was 
drawn ;  for  no  one  dreamed  that  this  organism,  almost 
dissolved  as  it  was  by  party  passion,  could  yet  give 
birth  to  such  demonic  power  as  Prussia  had  to  ac- 
knowledge even  while  crushing  it.  Yet  now  that 
the  phenomena  stands  complete  there  is  nothing  in 
it  which  the  history  of  the  countr}^  does  not  explain. 

Three  generations  of  Trenchmen  have  everywhere 
found  rehearsed  as  articles  of  faith  the  invincibihty  of 
France,  foremost  among  the  nations,  and  the  conquest 
of  the  Ehine  boundary,  as  a  sacred  historical  legacy. 
Gloire  and  Victoire,  France  and  Vaillance,  are  rhymes 
for  which  the  Almighty  seems  to  have  specially  fore- 
ordained the  French  language.  France  conquered  by 
Germany  is  in  the  eyes  of  the  French  people  an  illu- 
sion conjured  up  by  the  Evil  One.  They  were  spectral 
hosts  that  besieged  Paris.  Only  a  little  patience,  and 
with  the  returning  sun  the  ancient  arms  of  France 
wUl  glitter  as  of  yore  and  mirror  themselves  victori- 
ously in  the  waves  of  the  Ehine !  Gustave  Dore,  as 
purely  a  national  genius  as  ever  lived,  has  glorified 
this  expedition  in  a  symbolic  drawing,  which  illus- 
trates the  French  idea  of  it  better  than  anything 
which  could  be  said  or  written.  Every  Frenchman 
who  looks  at  it  must  exclaim,  "  Yes,  so  it   shall  be 


FEANCE   AND   VOLTAIRE.  47 

and  so  it  will  be ! "  That  it  ^yill  not  be  so  is  our 
hope. 

What  the  Frenchman  requires  is  elan !  forward ' 
without  bag  or  baggage,  no  matter  whither.  All 
France  hurrahed  and  rushed  into  the  war  with  Prus- 
sia: it  was  a  grand  expedition.  In  the  same  spirit 
Brennus  was  hurried  on  to  Eome,  Bonaparte  to  Egypt, 
Napoleon  to  Eussia.  The  Gaul  needs  about  every 
twenty-five  years  a  huge  political  exploring  expedition, 
arms  in  hand,  into  this  or  that  country  which  he  is 
pleased  for  the  nonce  to  declare  the  "  terra  incognita." 
They  did  not  wish  to  fight  with  the  noble  German 
people ;  a  promenade  to  Berlin  was  what  they  wanted, 
on  account  of  Sadowa.  They  neither  knew  where 
Berlin  lay,  nor  what  had  been  contended  for  at  Sa- 
dowa ;  an  undefined  thirst  for  battle  pervadecl  the 
nation ;  it  must  find  vent  against  the  Prussians.  The 
Emperor  himself,  certainly  the  greatest  pessimist  in  all 
France,  would  have  been  glad  enough  to  have  avoided 
the  war,  but  was  obliged  to  yield  to  the  pressure  of 
the  people. 

Let  us  endeavor  to  gain  a  view  of  the  phenomenon 
from  a  higher  stand-point. 

It  is  marvellous  to  observe  how  powerfully  the  love 
of  renown  has  stirred  in  the  heart  of  the  French 
people  from  the  hour  they  were  first  conscious  of 
being  a  nation.  Their  conquests  in  arms  and  their 
great  successes  in  art  and  literature  have  sprung 
from  this  source.     They  seize  upon  things  intellectual 


48  FRANCE   AND   VOLTAIEE. 

with  the  same  fire  and  boldness  with  which  they 
attack  foreign  powers.  They  have  unrivalled  dex- 
terity in  grasping  and  expressing  ideas.  They  are 
ready  with  their  theory  on  the  instant,  but  will  cheer- 
fully face  death  itself  for  it.  It  is  well  known  what 
French  speciahsts  have  done  and  are  doing  in  all 
the  various  departments  of  science.  They  are  greatest, 
however,  when  classifying  whole  masses  of  phenomena 
in  conformity  with  new  theories.  They  aim  at  an 
overwhelming  general  effect  which  shall  silence  all 
opposition.  They  expect  their  great  men  to  shoot 
across  the  heavens  hke  comets  with  fiery  tails,  straight 
through  the  constellations  of  fixed  stars.  And  we 
must  acknowledge,  that  for  two  hundred  years  the 
French  have  astonished  themselves  and  all  Europe 
with  such  men,  soldiers,  statesmen,  savants,  and  art- 
ists. Happen  what  might,  a  brief  interim,  and  France 
stood  again  at  the  head  of  nations ;  Paris,  the  brilhant 
centre  of  Europe,  —  hers  the  language  in  which  every- 
thing could  best  be  said ;  hers  the  soil,  the  air,  in 
which  great  men  sprang  up  and  found  the  most  rapid 
development ;  hers  the  honor  and  the  glory,  and  the 
hearth  on  whose  burning  coals  the  opinion  of  all 
Europe  was  fomented  ! 

How  could  this  city,  so  long  the  heart  and  brain  of 
Europe,  even  if  actually  in  the  grasp  of  the  German 
army,  be  crushed  or  humiliated  in  the  eyes  of  a 
Frenchman  ?  This  France  not  rise  again  with  to-mor- 
row's sun  to  revenge  herself  ?     Any  moment  they  imag- 


FRANCE   AND   VOLTAIRE.  49 

ined  might  change  the  whole  face  of  things !  If  the 
victory  announced  by  Gambetta  yesterday  was  none, 
may  it  not  still  come  before  to-day  closes  ?  It  needs 
only  the  right  general,  at  last,  one  no  traitor  like  the 
rest,  or  that  the  gods  who  perchance  have  slumbered 
should  awake  to  see  what  foul  demons  have  brought 
upon  France,  to  restore  with  one  brave  stroke  the  old 
order.     Such  thoughts  were  but  too  natural. 

To  us  at  this  time  Voltaire  is  of  special  significance, 
because  he  was  the  first  and  mightiest  organizer  of  the 
dogma  of  the  providentially  intended  preponderance  of 
France  among  the  nations,  which  from  small  beginnings 
gradually  became  an  element  of  the  French  character. 
France  had  not  always  been  the  first  nation.  Wlien 
Louis  XIV  began  to  consolidate  his  government  Haps- 
burg  was  a  giant  in  political  affairs  compared  with 
France,  while  Italy  exceeded  her  quite  as  much  in  cul- 
ture ;  the  precedence,  therefore,  was  naturally  yielded 
to  both  these  nations,  and  art  and  literature  openly  rec- 
ognized as  an  importation.  This  continued  for  decades, 
until  the  power  of  the  Austrian  and  English  monar- 
chies declined,  and  France,  by  a  series  of  victories,  not 
only  enlarged  her  boundaries  formidably,  but,  remould- 
ing all  the  heterogeneous  elements  thus  gained,  created 
a  new  French  nationality  with  Paris  for  its  centre.  It 
now  required  only  a  few  decades  before  the  people  liv- 
ing in  perpetual  contemplation  of  this  prosperous  state 
of  things  evolved  the  blessed  gospel  of  the  supremacy 
of  France,  —  the  prime  article  to-day  in  the  creed  of 
every  individual  Frenchman. 


50  FRANCE   AND  VOLTAIRE. 

To  establish  this  belief  Voltaire  contributed  more 
than  any  one  else.  He  first  comprehended  the  whole 
wealth  of  his  people,  and  exhibited  it  to  France  her- 
self as  well  as  to  other  countries,  in  its  full  splendor, 
as  a  living  reality.  To  him  this  France,  eclipsing  the 
rest  of  the  world  in  the  unity  of  her  land  and  people, 
was  the  product  of  the  total  development  of  human- 
ity. The  idea  was  natural,  and  nowhere  met  with 
opposition.  Voltaire  had  simply  formulated  what  all 
Europe  had  on  the  tongue.  He  was  himself,  however, 
the  ripest  fruit  in  this  paradise  of  modern  culture. 
All  his  experiences,  even  the  worst,  were  typical  of  his 
nation.  No  writer  ever  arose  in  any  part  of  the  world 
to  whom  his  people  and  country  served  as  such  an 
admirable  foil  as  the  French  to  Voltaire.  A  combi- 
nation of  many  fortuitous  circumstances  is  required 
before  out  of  thousands  who  seemed  called  one  is  per- 
mitted to  find  the  place  where  he  develops  perfectly 
and  exhibits  his  full  strength.  Voltaire  was  singled 
out  for  such  a  role  in  France.  His  spirit  represents  the 
spirit  of  millions,  and  each  individual  Frenchman  may 
be  considered  as  an  atom  of  his  soul.  He  was  greater, 
stronger,  happier  than  them  all,  and  the  century  in 
which  he  lived  and  worked  bears  his  name. 

Voltaire's  long  life  embraces  the  most  significant 
epoch  in  French  history.  As  a  youth  he  was  educated 
in  a  lively  consciousness  of  the  undisputed  supremacy 
which  the  powerful  Louis  XIV  won  for  France ;  his 
death  occurred  while  (although  the  French  Kevolution 


FRANCE   AND   VOLTAIRE.  51 

was  hastening  on)  the  rosy  glimmer  in  the  morning 
sky  still  promised  a  glorious  day.  Never  have  literary 
productions  commanded  so  high  a  price  as  during  the 
century  in  which  Voltaire  lived;  never  was  a  man 
more  richly  endowed  for  his  career,  nor  one  who  used 
his  talents  less  unsparingly.  We  have  in  our  century 
had  instances  of  books  more  popular  with  the  masses ; 
Sue's  Mysteries  of  Paris,  Eenan's  Life  of  Jesus,  Uncle 
Tom's  Cahin,  have  netted  authors  and  publishers  much 
greater  sums  than  did  even  Voltaire's  works.  As  re- 
gards these  books,  however,  there  were  certain  strata 
among  the  people  where  we  may  say  they  as  good 
as  never  existed,  and  even  of  those  who  read  them 
with  avidity,  who  has  really  found  in  them  daily 
food,  or  lasting  solace  and  enjoyment  ?  But  Vol- 
taire's works  were  classics  from  the  outset.  Fred- 
erick the  Great  deemed  it  an  understood  fact  that 
every  man  of  taste  must  prefer  the  Henriade  to  the 
Iliad.  Men  studied  Voltaire.  His  works  and  his  Hfe 
occupied  the  thoughts  of  the  best  classes  of  society  in 
his  day.  Into  religion,  science,  politics,  the  mind  of 
this  man  gradually  infused  itself.  Not  indeed  that  he 
had  a  clique  by  whom  his  influence  was  made  syste- 
matically effective. 

Voltaire  was  too  great  for  that !  Men  neither  loved 
nor  revered  him.  He  was  more  hated  and  feared  than 
any  one,  and  through  his  whole  life  had  only  servants 
and  coadjutors,  but  no  friends.  Yet  no  one,  let  the 
strength  of  his  individuality  be  what  it  might,  quite 


52  FRANCE   AND   VOLTAIRE. 

escaped  Voltaire's  influence,  which,  hke  the  sirocco 
whirling  desert  sands  through  tent  walls  of  treble 
thickness,  is  apparent,  even  over  those  who  seem  most 
energetically  to  have  resisted  it.  Lessing,  if  we  look  at 
him  dispassionately,  has  more  Yoltairean  elements  than 
would  seem  possible  with  such  great  personal  contrast ; 
and  Diderot,  together  with  many  others  whose  natures 
were  original  and  vigorous,  rested  largely  upon  him, 
although  this  may  not  have  been  perceived  in  his  gen- 
eration. One  man  only  stood  quite  free  of  him, — 
Jean  Jacques  Eousseau ;  and  he,  too,  was  the  only  one 
Voltaire  never  manoeuvred  to  win,  but  by  ignoring 
him,  and  by  other  covert  means  (such  as  nowadays  we 
could  scarcely  understand),  held  him  at  arm's-length. 

For  the  rest,  he  was  always  open  in  his  attacks,  and 
brought  into  play  the  entire  repertory  of  weapons  in 
his  arsenal,  from  the  powerful  big  guns,  whose  every 
shot  told,  down  to  the  meanest,  most  infamous  wea- 
pons, which  worked  Hke  poison  in  the  blood.  Voltaire 
simply  acted  out  his  instincts. 

He  was  hon  or  rattlesnake,  changing  from  one  to  the 
other  without  any  effort  of  will.  He  was  the  latest 
edition  of  the  old  Homeric  Proteus,  whom  he  like- 
wise resembled,  in  that,  for  the  most  part,  he  appeared 
to  be  placidly  sleeping  on  the  sea-shore  in  the  sunshine, 
only  when  goaded  rousing  himself  to  the  fight.  But 
in  truth  he  was  always  on  the  lookout,  and  it  was 
only  necessary  that  the  poor  mortal  who  met  his 
gaze  should  strike  him  as  worth  the  trouble  for  him 


FRANCE   AND   VOLTAIRE.  53 

to  make  his  very  existence  seem  a  reproSeiL  and  a 
shame.  One  thing  he  fovmd  absolutely  insufferable, 
namely,  to  be  obliged  to  acknowledge  that  he  was  not 
the  sole  literary  power  in  the  land. 

Voltaire's  history  is  the  record  of  these  dissonances 
and  strifes.  In  the  innermost  depth  of  his  nature  he 
can  hardly  be  said  to  have  ever  experienced  develop- 
ment. All  his  phases  are  only  external  manifesta- 
tions of  something  that  was  in  itself  complete  from 
the  beginning.  He  came  upon  the  stage  ripe  and 
ready,  springing  from  the  brain  of  his  native  land, 
armed  with  shield  and  spear,  and  skilled  in  their  use. 
"With  his  first  note  he  sent  a  challenge  to  right  and 
left,  fought  battles  all  round,  gave  sharp  thrusts,  and 
never  allowed  the  world  any  peace  until  he  drew  his 
last  breath.  In  his  whole  life  he  never  really  learned 
anything  new,  although  he  steadily  absorbed  into 
himself  the  novelties  of  his  day  and  generation ;  the 
germ  of  all  was  in  his  birth-right. 

To  the  farthest  points  the  web  of  his  knowledge 
and  personal  relations  was  stretched ;  in  those  meshes 
friends  and  enemies,  moths  and  elephants,  alike  were 
caught,  while  the  great  spider,  with  the  monstrous 
understanding,  sat  in  the  midst,  drawing  the  life-blood 
of  his  victims,  ever  lying  in  wait,  with  the  same  eyes, 
in  the  same  form,  and  on  the  same  spot. 

A  soil  and  atmosphere  in  which  such  an  individual 
could  display  himself  must  indeed  have  been  peculiar. 
The  Paris  wliich  was  Voltaire's  school,  in  which  he 


54  FRANCE   AND   VOLTAIRE. 

received  his  consecration  and  established  his  throne, 
was  a  unique  product  of  historic  evolution.  At  present 
there  is  a  list  of  great  cities  beside  Paris,  —  London, 
"JSTew  York,  Berlin,  Vienna,  and  St.  Petersburg, — which 
must  be  reckoned  as  about  equal  in  value  as  vertebral 
points  from  which  intellectual  light  radiates ;  but  the 
Paris  of  the  last  century  predominated  over  Eome, 
London,  and  Vienna  (the  only  three  cities  which  could 
be  named  in  comparison)  as  decidedly  as  the  French 
language  did  over  the  English  and  Italian. 

The  Parisians  were  at  that  time  the  favored  rep- 
resentatives of  the  most  cultivated  nation.  But  the 
efforts  they  had  been  making  for  a  whole  century  to 
attain  this  distinguished  rank  are  not  to  be  lightly 
estimated.  We  know  not  the  laws  that  permit  a 
wealth  of  great  men  suddenly  to  appear  in  the  midst 
of  a  people ;  but  in  France  we  see  during  the  seven- 
teenth and  eighteenth  centuries  such  an  extraordinary 
number  of  great  men  arising  on  all  sides,  that  the 
combined  lustre  of  their  achievements  has  sufficient 
light-givuig  power  to  create  a  brilliant  atmosphere  over 
all  France ;  something  such  as  we  observe  at  night 
over  large  cities,  and  in  which  even  common  things 
assume  unwonted  splendor. 

Let  us  first  look  at  their  achievements  in  the  literary 
field.  At  the  time  when  Voltaire  appeared  the  lan- 
guage had  been  elaborated  and  improved,  until  it  had 
become  an  instrument  of  such  fineness  that  the  advent 
of   a  man  who  could   exhibit  its   full  power   seemed 


FRANCE   AND   VOLTAIRE.  55 

a  demand  on  the  creative  genuis  of  the  nation.     One 
might  say  that  a  man  like  Voltaire  must  come. 

A  hundred  years  before  Voltaire,  Corneille  had  ap- 
peared. He  is  the  poet  of  the  Fronde,  Louis  XIII, 
Anne  of  Austria,  Eichelieu  and  Mazarin,  —  of  the  no- 
bility and  the  enfranchised  citizens,  armed  against  the 
king.  Corneille  found,  as  the  happiest  mirror  for  his 
day,  the  times  of  like  import  in  Eome,  when  the  fami- 
lies of  Cffisar  £lnd  Augustus  rose  to  supremacy  and  im- 
perial power  over  a  number  of  other  patrician  families, 
equally  powerful  and  equally  entitled.  During  Cor- 
neille's  most  susceptible  years  France  was  in  the  hands 
of  an  almost  mdependent  body  of  nobles,  with  whom 
individually  the  king  was  forced  to  compromise. 
Wliat  role  private  family  affairs  played  in  all  this,  and 
what  influence  the  beauty  and  intrigues  of  the  women 
had,  the  history  of  that  day  informs  us.  Mazarin 
speaks  of  their  extraordinary  interference  in  state 
affairs  as  distinguishing  France  from  Spain  and  Italy, 
where  certainly  les  grandes  dames  also  knew  how  to 
expedite  or  to  hinder  things.  When  Corneille  makes 
Augustus  say  Soyons  amis,  Cinna,  we  might  object 
to  its  wholly  false  effect,  as  an  illustration  of  Eoman 
history,  smce  Augustus  could  only  have  said  this  to 
cliaff  a  somewhat  insignificant  person.  The  public, 
however,  before  whom  this  was  played  saw  in  Augustus 
an  incarnation  of  the  united  power  of  Eichelieu  and 
the  king,  and  in  Cinna,  one  of  those  dukes  who,  even 
as  convicted  traitors,  were  still  powerful  enough  to 
count  on  having  things  settled  in  a  friendly  way. 


56  FRANCE   AND    VOLTAIRE. 

Corneille's  men  are  austere  in  speech,  and  his  women, 
in  whom  pohtics  and  love  seem  chemically  united,  are 
powerful  rather  than  feminine ;  even  Chimene,  the 
tenderest  of  all  the  poet's  creations,  never  loses  sight 
of  her  lofty  political  position.  That  the  following 
generation,  to  which  Eacine  belonged,  cared  no  longer 
for  such  things  is  quite  conceivable. 

Racine  is  the  court-poet  of  Louis  XIV,  whilst  dur- 
ing the  youth  of  the  king  the  vieille  cour  of  Anne 
of  Austria  adheres  to  the  great  Corneille  like  a  con- 
gregation to  its  old  hymn-book.  Eacine  glorifies  the 
new  France,  which  just  as  ardently  clings  to  him. 
This  new  France  of  which  we  speak  is  composed  of 
the  nobility,  restrained  and  educated  by  Louis :  Cinna 
signifies  the  general  French  public  making  its  first 
attempt  to  find  recognition  as  an  element  proper. 
The  old  patriotic  body  of  freemen,  once  able  to  close 
the  gates  of  their  city  against  the  king,  no  longer 
held  sway  in  Paris ;  now  it  was  the  great  sea  of  the 
people,  upon  whom  a  blow  was  hke  a  stroke  upon 
water,  which  nothing  separated,  and  which  upheld 
all  that  rose  to  the  surface,  drop  by  drop,  rising 
and  broadening  its  flow,  until,  after  a  series  of  gener- 
ations, the  Eevolution  arose,  and  in  its  midst  to-day 
the  honor  and  glory  of  France  seems  to  have  sunk 
forever. 

Eacine  needs  despots,  favorites,  amorous  young 
princes,  who  talk  of  nothing  but  their  passions,  and 
neither   rebel   against   their  country   nor  exert  them- 


FKANCE   AND   VOLTAIRE.  57 

selves  to  save  it ;  ministers  who  have  an  opinion,  but 
no  will  of  their  own,  and  if  they  speak  of  past  or  future 
refer  only  to  their  own  predecessors  or  successors,  and 
as  spectators  of  the  complications  arising  between  such 
characters,  —  either  a  court  where  these  things  were 
matters  of  personal  experience,  or  a  nation  deeming 
it  the  highest  enjoyment  to  be  near  this  court  and 
gaze  at  it  admirmgly  through  the  gilded  lattices  which 
shut  it  off  from  the  rest  of  the  world.  He  is  the 
poet  of  the  commoners,  as  yet  unstable  and  power- 
less, truckUng  to  the  nobihty,  both  the  higher  and 
the  lower. 

Moliere  is  the  greatest  of  the  three  poets.  He 
created  his  world  and  ruled  it.  Corneille  dared  not 
say  all  he  thought,  and  was,  moreover,  cramped  by 
pupillage  in  the  learned  pedantry  of  the  Academic 
clique  on  which  he  was  dependent.  Eacine,  one  feels 
clearly,  knew  the  court  to  be  other  than  as  he  paints 
it ;  the  smgle  tragedy  written  .out  of  his  soul,  Berenice, 
closes  with  a  sigh ;  it  might  have  ended  quite  differ- 
ently, and  he  wrote  nothing  further  of  this  kind. 
But  Moliere  was  perfectly  untrammeled.  His  mis- 
anthropy breaks  off  with  a  dissonance,  such  as  we 
meet  with  in  life  itself,  which  he  knew  through  and 
through.  His  language  is  free,  and  the  noblest  mani- 
festation of  the  genuine  French  spirit. 

Corneille,  Racine,  and  Mohere  put  their  own  stamp 
on  the  language,  and  gave  to  their  ideas  the  most  plastic 
and  artistic  shapes.     Clustered  about  them,  and  keep- 


58  fka:n'Ce  and  voltaike. 

ing  step  with  their  progress,  were  a  number  of  writers 
who  handled  the  language  with  ease  and  grace,  and 
in  admirable  ways  followed  the  bent  of  their  idiosyn- 
crasies. Language  and  literary  form  were  wrought  to 
such  a  pitch  of  perfection  as  to  render  it  a  difficult 
task  to  earn  the  right  to  use  it  for  the  public  benefit 
or  to  become  a  recognized  author.  Every  writer  was 
subjected  to  an  uninterrupted  series  of  the  most  irk- 
some examinations,  at  which  all  Paris  voted.  Even 
a  critic  like  Boileau  despairs  of  expressing  himself  in 
correct  French.  The  Parisian  savants,  together  with 
the  circle  by  whose  final  judgment  the  author  was 
forced  to  abide,  had  become  a  secret  power  in  which 
to  share  was  matter  of  competition  and  supposed  un- 
common gifts.  That  a  man  dared  to  appear  in  Paris 
and  claim  pubhc  attention  as  a  writer  in  itself,  argued 
distinction  of  some  sort.  "Writing  and  printing  were 
not  at  that  time  what  they  are  to-day.  Far  more  was 
written  and  read  to  private  audiences  than  appeared 
in  print,  or  was  exposed  for  sale  in  the  bookstores. 

Indeed,  we  may  say  that  about  the  year  1700  all 
Paris  wrote.  Lords  and  valets  composed  gallant  or 
satirical  verses,  epistles,  memoirs,  tragedies,  and  love- 
letters.  They  wrote  and  helped  to  circulate  what  was 
written,  praised,  censured,  but  insatiably  asked  for 
more.  This  excitement  lasted  up  to  the  Eevolution, 
when  its  character  changed.  From  Corneille  even 
to  our  time,  a  period  of  two  hundred  and  fifty  years, 
French  literature  swayed   the  taste  of  Europe.     The 


FRANCE   AND   VOLTAIRE.  59 

different  phases  tlirough  which  it  passed  were  iu  con- 
junction with  the  revohitions  in  the  general  political 
condition. 

As  durmg  these  two  hundred  and  fifty  years  the 
conduct  of  public  affairs  step  by  step  passed  out  of 
the  hands  of  the  nobles  into  that  of  the  democratic 
masses,  —  amongst  whom  to-day  only  wealth  or  tal- 
ent gives  weight  and  position,  —  the  literature  also 
in  the  gradual  transit  adapted  itself  as  far  as  possible 
to  the  taste  of  those  exercising  the  supreme  control. 

But  this,  too,  is  of  the  past !  The  mission  of  liter- 
ature seems  fulfilled  in  the  sense  of  these  centuries 
gone  by.  We  start  afresh !  With  us  writing  and 
printing  are  simply  vehicles  of  communication,  the 
matter  the  essential  thing.  Naive  enjoyment  in  lan- 
guage as  such  is  lost.  To  be  sure  he  who  revels  in 
the  artistic  management  of  language  will  always  win 
his  audience  and  his  fame;  but  if  we  regard  htera- 
ture  as  the  servant  of  the  forces  governing  mankind 
at  the  present  day,  we  find  the  style  of  the  roughest 
telegraphic  despatch  as  effective  over  the  masses  as 
the  most  elegant  and  elaborately  constructed  senten- 
ces. This  is  most  striking  in  France,  England,  and 
America.  The  nations  do  not  seem  to  want  books 
which  can  be  slowly  converted  into  friends,  but  spe- 
cial utterances  of  beloved  or  distinguished  people, 
whose  opinions  can  be  at  once  accepted  and  put  in 
practice.  Eeading  is  only  a  substitute  for  personal  in- 
tercourse, —  not  for  conversation,  however,  but  for  the 


60  FRANCE   AND   VOLTAIRE. 

business  of  life.  Nobody  is  surprised  to  receive  as 
answer  to  the  question,  "  Have  you  read  this  or  that 
book  ? "  "  No,  but  I  know  the  author ;  he  is  a  friend 
of  mine." 

The  world-wide  intercourse  in  which  we  all  share 
makes  reading  and  writing  a  labor;  and  only  those 
can  find  enjoyment  in  it  whose  efforts  are  not  de- 
manded in  any  other  sphere.  At  the  time  when 
Voltaire  appeared,  a  hopeless  stagnation  prevailed 
throughout  the  political  hfe  of  Europe.  Men  had  no 
political  ideals.  Eobinson  Crusoe's  rocky  isle  was 
the  Utopia  of  national  economy,  beyond  which  the 
imagination  of  the  people  did  not  soar.  Sure  only  of 
the  present,  they  allowed  themselves  to  relapse  into 
mere  enjoyment  of  it,  and  believed  the  deep  ruts  in 
which  they  were  shuffling  along  the  necessary  requi- 
sites for  a  good  road.  That  changes  could  be  brought 
about  by  an  impulse  springing  out  of  the  heart  of 
a  united  people  was  an  idea  which  never  had  dawned 
even  upon  Montesquieu,  when  at  the  conclusion  of  his 
Esprit  cles  Lois  he  constructed  his  model  state.  In 
general  society  the  one  thing  to  be  done  was  to  pro- 
vide as  good  music  as  possible,  that  all  might  dance. 
For  this  the  young  were  educated,  and  their  elders 
found  delight  in  it.  Life  seemed  long,  and  its  vicissi- 
tudes comparatively  few.  To  fight  against  ennui  was 
everybody's  chief  concern.  Louis  XIV,  in  his  old 
age,  the  Eegent  and  Louis  XV,  excelled  in  this  species 
of  warfare.     Heaven  and  hell  were  set  in  commotion 


FRANCE    AND    VOLTAIRE.  61 

to  defeat  this  enemy ;  of  what  immense  value,  then, 
must  a  man  have  been  who  wherever  he  appeared 
dissipated  every  shade  of  ennui  as  if  by  witchcraft; 
who  (hke  the  giant's  daughter  sweeping  everything 
that  came  under  her  hand,  changed  to  toys,  into  her 
apron)  transformed  all  that  his  mind  touched  into  the 
most  entertaining  playthings  for  the  people,  and  this 
year  after  year,  and  on  through  many  generations.  To 
this  end  Voltaire  could  utilize  the  merest  nothings,  as 
well  as  the  most  prodigious  questions  of  science,  and 
the  one,  it  would  seem,  as  easily,  as  the  other.  Every- 
thing sers'ed  him,  and  all  gained  equal  weight  in  his 
hands. 

Corneille  would  flatter  the  as  yet  torpid  spirit  of 
the  people,  which,  unconscious  of  its  power,  seemed 
to  have  only  a  dim  foreboding  of  the  supremacy  it 
finally  assumed  in  Europe;  Eacine  glorified  the  pas- 
sions of  the  changing  court,  mo\Tag  along  proudly, 
treading  upon  laurels  real  and  imaginary,  to  which 
a  nation  looked  up  as  the  Greeks  and  Eomans  to 
the  eternally  feasting  Olympians.  Voltaire  aimed  to 
astoimd,  to  thrill,  to  teach  the  great  Parisian  pubhc, 
but  all  only  to  relieve  it  from  ennui.  "  Tous  les  genres 
sont  tons  hors  Vennuyeux"  was  his  motto.  The  peo- 
ple should  be  forced  to  laugh  or  to  weep,  no  matter 
which,  so  they  realized  it  was  he  who  had  the  skill 
and  cunning  to  do  it.  Voltaire  was  the  most  prodi- 
gious literary  actor  that  ever  found  shelter  on  our 
planet,  —  herein  perhaps  wholly  unique.     An  actor  not 


62  FRANCE   AND   VOLTAIRE. 

in  the  common  sense,  but  in  the  highest,  such  as 
Garrick  was;  for  Voltaire  identifies  himself  so  com- 
pletely with  the  role  he  plays  as  to  transform  him- 
self into  the  character  he  represents,  and  the  illusion 
is  only  destroyed  for  the  spectator  when  he  suddenly 
appears  in  a  wholly  different  r61e.  To  laugh  or  to 
weep,  to  reflect  seriously  upon  life  and  its  duties,  or 
to  shrug  one's  shoulders  over  it  in  thoughtless  fri- 
volity, to  find  delight  in  the  world,  or  to  despise  it, 
to  plunge  into  the  profoundest  depths  of  scholarly 
research,  or  to  thrust  sceptically  aside  all  learned 
contemplations,  —  to  each  in  turn  he  summons  us,  and 
every  time  with  equally  convincing  arguments ;  always, 
however,  only  for  so  and  so  long,  not  forever.  His  cor- 
respondence affords  the  best  examples  of  this :  there  is 
not  a  single  one  of  his  very  eloquent  passages  in  which, 
sooner  or  later,  the  moment  does  not  come  when  we 
say  to  ourselves,  "  This  was  written  to  produce  some 
particular  effect  upon  others,  or  at  the  best  upon  him- 
self." At  the  same  time  we  must  not  leave  out  of 
account  the  enormous  expenditure  of  intellectual  mate- 
rial involved  in  this  play ;  nor  indeed  that  it  was  in 
the  gratification  of  this  impulse  that  Voltaire  saved 
the  innocent  from  death  when  all  France  cried  out 
against  them.  He  was  courageous  and  tough.  He 
possessed  immense  power  to  make  his  thoughts  those 
of  the  multitude,  and  if  he  often  enough  made  use  of 
it  to  avenge  himself  on  his  enemies,  it  proved  no  less 
potent  when  he  espoused  the  cause  of  the  oppressed. 


FRANCE   AND   VOLTAIRE.  63 

Yet  after  having  provided  munificently  for  a  distant 
granddaughter  of  Corneille's,  when  a  rough,  uncouth  fel- 
low presented  himself  proving  nearer  relationship  and 
more  intimate  claims  on  the  great  poet,  he  speeded  the 
poor  creature  on  his  way  with  only  a  friendly  viaticum. 
Perhaps  could  Corneille  himself  have  appeared  in  his 
old  torn  shoes,  Voltaire  would  have  given  him  a  new 
pair,  at  the  same  time  beseeching  him  to  get  out  of 
his  way.  He  did  what  he  could,  but  still  only  what 
he  would;  people  must  not  make  themselves  disa- 
greeable, and  if  he  was  to  be  moved,  the  looks  of  the 
world  must  be  upon  him.  Voltaire  did  not  like  situa- 
tions in  which  the  arrangements  were  not  advantageous 
for  him ;  nor  did  he  often  meddle  with  things  that  did 
not  picture  him  in  a  favorable  light  to  the  eyes  of  the 
curious  world. 

Voltaire  is  of  moment  to  us  to-day  as  poet,  historian, 
and  to  the  German  nation  especially  as  the  friend  of 
Frederick  the  Great. 

For  this  reason  it  is  valuable  for  every  one  to  obtain 
a  knowledge  of  his  works  and  character.  Voltaire 
sought  to  fairly  exhaust  the  erudition  of  his  time ; 
but  what  he  has  himself  contributed  to  religious 
philosophy,  to  the  natural  sciences,  and  to  kmdred 
branches  of  learning,  is  a  matter  of  interest  to  those 
only  who  make  these  a  specialty.  His  most  legiti- 
mate renown  attaches  to  his  writings  on  historical 
subjects.  These,  unrivaled  in  form,  and  whose  influ- 
ence over  the  mind  and  destiny  of  France  seem  inti- 


64  FRANCE   AND   VOLTAIRE. 

mately  connected  with   the   final  terrific  ruin  of   his 
country,  are  to-day  still  fresh  and  readable. 

A'oltaire  came  into  the  world  in  1694;  his  youth 
fell  in  the  dull  and  stagnant  years  precedmg  the 
death  of  Louis  XIV,  when  the  people,  enduring  the 
misery  of  a  despotic  and  firmly-interwoven  Jesuit 
pohce  system,  awaited  the  departure  of  the  superan- 
nuated monarch,  without  however  attaching  any  pro- 
spective hopes  to  the  hour  when  it  should  take  place. 
St.  Simon  depicts  this  state  of  things  admirably,  bring- 
ing out  the  minutise  with  the  sly,  cool  spitefulness 
pecuhar  to  him.  At  that  time,  as  well  as  later,  public 
spirit  was  sustained  by  the  vanity  of  the  people  in 
the  triumphant  position  of  France  among  the  nations. 
Were  they  not  the  first,  ably  conducting  their  politics 
in  silks  and  velvets,  —  what  more  could  they  wisli  ? 
We  all  know  how,  upon  the  death  of  the  king  and 
tlie  accession  of  the  regent,  this  wearisome  stagna- 
tion came  to  an  end,  and  what  mad  doings  followed. 
Nobles  and  citizens,  hitherto  residing  separately  in 
Versailles  and  Paris,  now  rushed  together  like  two 
chemical  elements  whose  union  was  complete  as  soon 
as  they  touched,  and  from  that  moment  formed  the 
"Parisian  pub  he  governing  the  world."  In  the  time 
of  Corneille  we  read  more  than  once  in  the  memoirs  of 
Madame  de  Motteville,  "  This  year  the  court  is  abso- 
lutely deserted,  for  everybody  has  gone  to  the  war." 
This  certainly  never  happened  in  the  days  of  Eacine 
and   Moliere ;   for  then  Versailles,  even  in  war-time, 


FRANCE    AND    VOLTAIRE.  65 

was  not  quite  empty,  only  special  blood  must  flow  in 
the  veins  in  order  to  be  received  there.  But  Voltaire 
needed  not  to  bruise  his  spirit  against  any  such  limita- 
tions ;  he  first  learned  to  use  his  wings  when,  night 
after  night,  in  the  Palais  Eoyal,  play-actresses  and  duch- 
esses, with  their  respective  manly  attaches,  assembled 
as  equals  in  rank,  under  the  presiding  regent,  while  the 
rest  of  Paris  stood  outside  listening  at  the  half-closed 
window-bluids  m  order  to  catch  and  circulate  accounts 
of  the  scandal  and  uproar  within.  The  days  had  come 
when  lackeys  and  nobles,  the  two  extremes  in  conviv- 
ial intercourse,  formed  the  warp  and  woof  of  society, 
whose  only  aim  was  to  get  money  quickly  in  order  to 
spend  it  again  as  quickly,  and  to  create  for  themselves 
leisure  only  to  waste  it. 

Notwithstanding  all  this,  the  external  civic  regula- 
tions, dating  from  past  centuries,  had  been  so  firm  and 
strong,  that  in  the  midst  of  confusion  and  bad  manage- 
ment  the  state  held  out  still  a  hundred  years ;  and  the 
intellectual  culture  of  the  seventeenth  century  having 
had  an  equally  durable  basis,  there  arose  in  the  midst 
of  all  this  frivolity  and  superficiality  deep  thinkers, 
men  of  genius,  whose  authority  j)revented  the  general 
level  of  public  culture  from  sinking  so  low  as  it  has 
to-day  under  an  improved  national  economy  and  out- 
ward circumstances  vastly  more  favorable.  The  solid 
beginnmgs  operated  yet.  This  was  the  rococo  period 
of  which  the  poets  sing,  and  painters  compose  such 
charming  pictures,  where  maidens  with  powdered  heads 


66  FEANCE   AND   VOLTAIRE. 

peep  out  of  the  rose-embowered  windows  of  village 
inns,  just  a  walk  from  their  fascinating  country-houses, 
and  who  seem  to  have  moved  so  airily  in  their  heavy, 
rustling  brocades  as  hardly  to  have  touched  the  earth 
with  the  heel  of  their  dainty  slippers.  When  every- 
body paid  in  nothing  less  than  shining  Louis-d'or ; 
when  between  marquis  and  marquises  in  pleasure  pal- 
aces the  incessant  whisper  of  intrigue  went  on ;  when 
in  open  calash,  with  trim  little  postilions  in  the 
saddle,  they  whisked  like  the  wind  over  the  smooth 
roads  of  the  glorious  old  kingdom  of  good  old  France, 
fifty  per  cent  of  whose  population  at  that  time  lived 
doing  nothing,  from  beggar  and  monk  to  duke  and 
archbishop,  and  were  nourished  by  the  other  fifty  per 
cent  who  drudged  and  tilled  the  land,  grovelling  in  the 
dust  and  living  like  cattle,  —  although  precious  little  of 
this  work  in  the  mole-heap  came  to  the  knowledge  of 
anybody.     All  this  seemed  natural  in  France. 

At  seven  years  of  age  Voltaire  had  already  written 
enchanting  poetry.  At  twelve  he  was  presented  to 
the  old  Ninon  de  I'Enclos,  who  left  him  two  thousand 
pounds  in  her  will,  that  he  might  buy  books.  Vol- 
taire was  to  be  a  jurist ;  but  a  relation,  an  abb^,  who 
admired  his  intellect,  took  good  care  that  the  youth 
should  be  early  enough  taken  into  the  best  literary 
society  of  Paris  to  enable  him  to  discover  for  what  he 
really  was  intended. 

He  was  not  left  dependent  on  such  people  as  a  poor 
author  picks  up  in  tavern  and  alehouse,  but  introduced 


FRANCE   AND   YOLTAIKE.  67 

at  once  into  the  society  of  rich  financiers,  abbes,  and 
chevaliers,  etc.,  whose  connections  were  exclusively 
with  the  higher  classes,  and  who  dined  and  supped  in 
palaces.  At  eighteen  years  of  age  Voltaire  was  thrown 
for  the  second  time  into  the  Bastile,  because  he  had 
written  verses  satirizing  the  regent  and  his  daughter ; 
which,  moreover,  in  the  most  humble  letters  and  by  all 
that  was  holy,  he  disowned  and  denied.  Whilst  in 
prison  he  wrote  his  first  tragedy,  the  CEdipc ;  was 
released,  had  his  work  brought  upon  the  stage,  wit- 
nessed forty-five  representations  of  it,  received  a  gold 
medal  and  a  pension  from  the  regent,  and,  after  its  mer- 
its and  defects  had  been  made  the  subject  of  a  bitter 
public  discussion,  contrived  to  have  it  printed  with  a 
preface  by  the  most  esteemed  critic  of  the  day,  Mon- 
sieur de  la  Motte.  He  says  that  if  the  public,  on  see- 
ing the  tragedy  acted,  felt  that  a  successor  of  Corneille 
and  Eacine  had  arisen  in  France,  the  reading  of  this 
work  could  but  deepen  and  confirm  the  impression. 
All  had  happened  before  Voltaire  was  much  more  than 
twenty-five  years  of  age.  Matured  by  an  experience 
which  would  have  done  honor  to  an  older  man,  he  had 
selected  the  most  acceptable  material  and  moulded  it 
in  the  best  form  for  a  tragedy  (making  use  of  a  model 
forgotten  by  everybody)  and  presented  it  to  the  public 
in  brilliant  and  faultless  alexandrines.  A  hterary  feat 
from  the  first  to  the  last  letter,  without  a  spark  of  real 
feeling,  poetry,  or  mystery  ;  precision  of  expression,  ar- 
rangement of  scenes,  and  theatrical  effect  its  sole  aim. 


€8  FRANCE   AND   VOLTAIRE. 

It  would,  however,  scarcely  be  right  to  discuss  the 
peculiarities  of  Voltaire's  dramas  as  illustrated  in  the 
CEclipus,  which  was  his  first  and  is  to-day  his  least 
renowned  work.  Mahomet,  Zaire,  and  Tancred  are  the 
tragedies  of  which  we  should  speak.  In  these  he  in- 
carnates the  sum  of  his  experiences  and  exhibits  his 
full  power.  They  are  still  quoted,  read,  perhaps  ad- 
mired ;  and  that  Goethe  valued  Tancred  and  Mahomet 
highly  enough  to  translate  them  was  indicative  of 
their  worth  to  the  Germans. 

Certainly  it  could  never  have  escaped  such  a  sharp- 
sighted  critic  as  Voltaire,  that  one  grand  leading 
thought  and  character  strongly  marked  were  essential 
as  the  basis  for  tragedy ;  and  further,  how  could  one 
whose  mind  was  at  home  in  the  literatures  of  all 
nations,  and  familiar  with  every  literary  expedient,  fail 
to  see  before  him  a  wealth  of  resources  by  which  to 
lend  to  his  dramas  these  two  requisites.  In  truth,  he 
went  to  work  with  such  imposing  clearness  as  to 
delude  even  Goethe.  All  that  in  cold  blood  can  be 
made  of  a  work  of  art  Voltaire  has  accomplished  in 
his  tragedies.  But  let  us  compare  one  of  his  passages 
in  Mahomet  with  Goethe's  translation  of  it :  — 

"  Tremblant,  saisi  d'effroi,  j'ai  plonge  dans  son  flanc 
Ce  glaive  consacre  qui  dut  verser  son  sang. 
J'ai  voulu  rt'doubler  ;  ce  vieillard  venerable 
A  jete  dans  mes  bras  un  cri  si  lamentable, 
La  nature  a  trace  dans  ses  regards  mourants 
Un  si  grand  caractere,  et  des  traits  si  touchants ! 


FRANCE   AND   VOLTAIRE.  69 

De  tendresse  et  d'effroi  mon  ame  s'est  remplie, 
Et,  plus  mouraut  que  lui,  je  deteste  ma  vie." 

Xe  Fanatisme,  Act  rv.  Scene  4. 

How  does  Goethe  render  these  rhetorical  flights,  so 
devoid  of  all  graphic  power  ? 

"Mit  AVuth  ergriff  ich  ihn,  der  Schwache  fiel. 
Ich  traf,  ich  zuckte  schon  zum  zweiten  Streich 
Ein  jammerlicher  Scbrei  zerriss  mein  Olir, 
Vom  Staub  herauf  gebot  die  edelste 
Gestalt  mir  Ehrfurcht,  seine  Ziige  schienen 
Verklart,  es  scliien  ein  Heil'ger  zu  versclieiden 
Die  Lanipe  warf  ihr  bleiches  Licht  auf  ihn 
Und  diister  floss  das  Blut  aus  seiner  AVunde." 

Goethe  has  lent  form  and  substance  to  the  vague 
generalities  in  the  Frenchman's  production,  and,  feel- 
ing that  even  this  was  not  enough,  added  the  two 
last  lines  which  give  light  and  shade  to  the  picture. 
Here  we  find  what  Voltaire  lacked.  His  dramatic 
creations  all  shared  that  element  of  unreality  which 
greatly  impaired  the  effect  of  his  first  tragedy,  and 
later,  when  inspired  with  the  intention  of  making 
them  the  vehicle  of  great  thoughts  these  thoughts 
seemed  so  alien  to  the  character  of  the  piece  that  they 
might  as  well  have  been  left  out;  they  are  dragged 
in  head  and  shoulders,  and  their  irrelevancy  only  dis- 
guised by  the  fact  that  in  the  public  desire  to  meet 
a  leading  thought  everywhere  no  discrimination  was 
exercised  as  to  its  pertinence.  As  regards  dramatic 
treatment,  we  see  external  accidents  of  the  clap-trap 


70  FEANCE   AND   VOLTAIRE. 

kind  made  to  bring  about  violent  catastrophes.  Not 
one  original  turn  surprises  us,  and  leads  us  to  exclaim, 
"  A  poet  wrote  this  !  "  "  Only  Voltaire  could  have  con- 
ceived it ! "  Corneille  and  Eacine  are  brimming  over 
with  lucky  hits ;  Racine  is  so  rich  in  other  ways  that 
his  small  talent  for  scenic  arrangement  is  scarcely 
observed,  but  Voltaire,  as  dramatist,  is  not  striking  and 
original,  never  surprises  us,  and  succeeds,  at  the  most, 
only  in  worrying  us. 

Voltaire's  inabiHty  to  create  characters,  and  to  give 
the  phenomena  of  life  true  color  and  form,  is  so  very 
evident  that  it  must  be  attributed  to  the  idiosyncrasy 
of  his  whole  nature.  Among  all  his  writings,  both  in 
prose  and  verse,  I  have  never  been  so  fortunate  as  to 
discover  two  sentences  which  afforded  a  picture.  He 
does  not  succeed  even  in  painting  one  where  it  would 
be  the  easiest  thing  in  the  world  to  do  so,  —  as,  for 
instance,  when  he  wishes  to  describe,  in  a  letter  to 
a  painter,  the  view  from  Ferney,  on  Lake  Geneva,  he 
takes  pains  to  build  up  with  words  something  like 
an  actual  landscape.  Vain  endeavor!  Out  of  the 
complete  disorder  in  which  he  brings  the  main  fea- 
tures of  the  scene  before  us  no  one  could  tell  what 
to  look  for  above,  below,  in  the  middle,  or  to  the  right 
and  left.  This  lack  of  power  to  excite  the  imagination 
by  pictures  is  most  curiously  conspicuous  in  his  great 
heroic  poem  the  Hcnriade. 

Among  Voltaire's  minor  poems  is  one  in  which  he 
assigns  the  position  he  holds  among  the  epic  poets. 


FliANCE   AND   YOLTAIliE.  71 


Stances  sur   les   Poetes   Epiques   A   Madame   la 
Marquise  du   Chatelet. 

Plein  de  beautes  et  de  defauts 

Le  vieil  Homere  a  mon  estime; 
II  est,  comme  tous  ses  heros, 

Babillard,  outre,  mais  sublime. 

Virgile  orne  mieux  la  raison, 

A  plus  d'art,  autant  d'harmonie ;  r  » •     '■■■          -^    \ 

Mais  il  s'epuise  avec  Didon  -,          _      ^Jl'l'   )] 

Et  rate  a  la  fin  Lavinie.  '"''^^''^©RNIA 

De  faux  brillants,  trop  de  magie, 

Jklettent  le  Tasse  un  cran  plus  bas, 

Mais  que  ne  tolere-t'-on  pas 
Pour  Armide  et  pour  Herminie? 

Milton,  plus  sublime  qu'eux  tous, 

A  des  beautes  —  moins  agreables ; 
n  semble  chanter  pour  les  fous. 

Pour  les  anges,  et  pom*  les  diables. 

Apres  Milton,  apres  le  Tasse, 

Parler  de  moi,  serait  trop  fort; 

Et  j'attendrai  que  je  sois  mort, 
Pour  apprendre  quelle  est  ma  place. 

Vous,  en  qui  tant  d'esprit  abonde, 
Tant  de  grace  et  taut  de  douceur, 
Si  ma  place  est  dans  votre  coeur, 
Elle  est  la  premiere  du  monde. 

Voltaire,   (Euvres  Completes. 
Paris:  Didot,  Frhres,  1808,  Vol.  U.  p.  575. 


72  FKANCE    AND   VOLTAIRE. 

In  the  last  verse  Voltaire  gives  us  to  understand  that 
for  the  present  he  will  be  satisfied  with  a  firm  place 
in  the  heart  of  the  Marquise  du  Chdtelet ;  but  he 
certainly  never  doubted  what  the  judgment  of  him  by- 
posterity  would  be.  Had  not  Frederick  the  Great  de- 
clared that  Homer  was  nothing  in  comparison  with 
him  !  (Which  I  may  be  allowed  to  quote  twice,  since 
the  king  so  often  repeated  it.)  If  Voltaire  in  his 
old  age  calls  La  Harpe  (the  author  of  a  now  forgot- 
ten tragedy)  Sophocles,  who  was  crowning  the  aged 
^schylus  —  that  was  himself — with  flowers,  he  meant 
it  quite  seriously.  "  I  have  always  believed,  I  do  now 
believe,  and  shall  continue  to  beheve,"  he  writes 
Horace  Walpole  (15th  July,  1768),  "  that  Paris  in  her 
tragedies  and  comedies  surpasses  Athens  in  every 
respect.  I  boldly  assert  that  all  the  Greek  tragedies 
seem  like  school-boy  compositions  compared  with  the 
glorious  scenes  in  Corneille,  and  the  consummate 
tragedies  of  Eacine."  Voltaire  felt  it  to  be  so  entirely 
beyond  question  that  his  time  was  the  golden  era  in 
the  ages,  and  he  the  poet  of  poets,  that  he  talks  of  it 
coolly  as  of  an  established  fact  in  regard  to  which 
modesty  and  immodesty  did  not  come  in  play. 

I  have  met  with  only  one  person  out  of  the  many 
I  have  asked,  w^ho  professed  to  have  read  the  Hen- 
riade.  It  is  generally  supposed  to  be  a  long-winded 
poem,  that  it  is  no  loss  not  to  be  familiar  with  it, 
composed  of  many  songs,  dedicated  to  a  rehearsal  of 
the  deeds  of  Henry  IV.     But  the  Henriade  has  little 


FRANCE   AND   VOLTAIRE.  73 

enough  to  do  with  its  hero  !  It  is  (together  with  many 
other  things  which  it  is  also)  one  of  the  ablest  and 
sharpest  attacks  ever  directed  against  the  Church  of 
Eome.  If  Pascal,  in  his  letters  A  Un  Provincial  gave 
expression  to  the  inimical  feeling  with  which  the 
enlightened  community  of  the  seventeenth  century 
looked  upon  the  Jesuit  rule  in  France,  Voltaire's  Hen- 
riade  incarnates  the  malignant  opposition  in  the 
breasts  of  the  philosox^hic  portion  of  the  Parisian 
public,  to  the  absolute  tyranny  of  the  Ptomish  Church. 
We  must  therefore  speak  of  Voltaire's  position  toward 
the  Church  before  coming  to  any  opinion  with  regard 
to  the  Henriade. 

The  old  tradition  exists  that  Voltaire  was  an 
atheist,  a  scoffer  at  every  thing  holy,  an  enemy  to 
religion.  But  he  carefully  avoided  ever  coming  out 
directly  against  the  Catholic  religion.  Voltaire  soared 
much  too  high  above  his  surroundings  not  to  attain, 
in  his  loneliness,  to  the  conception  of  a  personal  God, 
and  far  too  well  understood  the  wants  of  self-support 
in  the  masses  not  to  look  upon  distinct  formulas  of 
belief  as  necessary  to  define  their  relation  with  God. 
He  never,  indeed,  helped  to  shape  these  formulas  for 
them,  and  he  in  the  main  disagreed  with  such  as  the 
Church  offered.  At  his  death  he  submitted  formally 
to  the  authority  of  the  Ptoman  Catholicism ;  but  before 
he  had  any  thought  of  dying  he  once  enacted  a  farce, 
in  which,  taking  the  part  of  the  dying  man,  he  accepted 
all   the   consolations   of   the   Church,   then,  suddenly 


74  FRANCE   AND  VOLTAIKE. 

springing  from  the  bed,  mocked  and  jeered  at  the 
priests.  He  once  went  so  far  as  in  all  seriousness 
to  join  the  order  of  the  Capuchins,  and  mounted  the 
pulpit  to  deliver  a  thrilling  penitential  discourse.  Yet 
he  said  the  most  abusive  things  about  the  popes, 
and  to  a  pope  dedicated  his  tragedy  of  Mahomet,  in 
v/hich,  under  the  guise  of  Mahometanism,  an  attack 
vipon  the  fanaticism  of  the  Church  was  intended.  The 
same  performance  is  repeated  in  the  Henriade.  He 
has  ventured  in  this  poem  to  expose  things  against 
Eome  which,  had  they  been  couched  in  less  crafty 
language,  would  have  cost  him  his  life.  But  withal, 
he  humbly  proposed  to  an  old  Jesuit,  "revered  as 
a  father,"  to  expurgate  every  word  in  it  militating 
against  the  Catholic  religion,  —  to  whose  honor  and 
glory,  in  fact,  the  poem  was  written.  Lastly,  Cardinal 
Quirini  translated  the  Henriade  into  Italian. 

Trance,  like  all  the  other  Cathohc  countries  at  that 
time,  was  filled  with  a  clergy  representing  every  grade 
of  culture  and  every  rank  in  life,  and  having  at  their 
disposition  an  enormous  amount  of  property  in  money 
and  lands.  Moreau  de  Janvers  reckoned  the  income 
of  the  entire  French  nobility,  for  the  year  1700,  at 
five  hundred  and  twenty  millions,  the  king  (including 
everything)  at  nine  hundred  and  fifty-four  millions,  the 
clergy  at  five  hundred  and  twelve  millions;  and  this 
fourth  of  the  whole  revenue  was  in  the  hands  of  only 
about  three  hundred  and  ten  thousand  individuals. 

This  power,  however,  would  have  been  less  danger- 


FRANCE   AND   VOLTAIRE.  75 

ous  if,  as  in  the  times  preceding  Voltaire,  it  had  been 
forced  to  maintain  itself  in  the  face  of  an  inimical 
worldly  element  warring  against  it.  But,  as  we  saw 
at  the  beginning  of  the  eighteenth  century,  nobles 
and  commonors  moving  on  together,  we  now  find  the 
clergy  also  included  in  the  general  union.  Fierce  an- 
tagonisms, dating  from  the  time  of  Louis,  when  ques- 
tions of  church  disciphne  were  handled  as  matters  of 
life  and  death,  all  at  once  shrank  mto  nothingness, 
because  Paris  had  lost  the  power  to  be  interested  in 
anything,  whatever  it  might  be,  more  than  three  days. 
For  in  these  very  words  Voltaire  himself  branded  the 
mdifferentism  of  his  age.  More  and  more  frivolous 
became  the  tone  of  the  great  crowd,  more  and  more 
formidable  the  power  of  the  priesthood  ;  and  so  it  came 
about  that,  at  the  same  time  when  one  strata  of  society 
dared  openly  proclaim  its  denial  of  all  religion,  for  the 
smallest  breach  of  form  (if  the  interests  of  the  clergy 
demanded)  they  could  pounce  upon  whom  they  would, 
and  were  usually  sure  of  their  victim.  The  pubhc 
looked  on  without  sympathy,  and  allowed  them  free 
swing.  It  was  this  tyranny  (which,  owing  to  the  sup- 
port of  Eome  and  other  Catholic  powers,  was  of  bound- 
less extent)  that  Voltaire  sought  to  undermine.  To 
hope  to  make  any  progress  here,  however,  the  first 
necessity  was  to  create  an  excitement.  Eehgious 
ideas,  which  had  long  ceased  to  stir  anybody,  must 
again  be  made  to  rouse  the  passions  of  the  educated.  I 
do  not  think  that  the  systematic  conflict  Voltaire  later 


76  FEAXCE   AXL   VOLTAIEE. 

waged  against  the  clergy  arose  in  the  beginning  from 
the  convictions  which  were  the  strength  and  fire  of 
his  old  age.  "Wlien  he  wrote  the  Henriade  he  was 
a  young  man.  There  lived  and  worked  in  his  soul  a 
revolutionar}^  power,  fitted  to  stir  the  masses,  but 
which  the  general  laxity  of  the  nation  denied  him 
opportunity  to  bring  into  action.  Three  powers  in 
France  formed  the  basis  on  which  all  else  rested, — 
royalty,  nobiUty,  and  the  church. 

To  fight  against  the  first  two  was  not  to  be  thought 
of;  therefore,  "  On  without  loss  of  time  against  the 
Church ! "  "We  have  in  the  Henriade,  as  it  were,  the 
correspondence  between  irritated  diplomates  which  pre- 
cedes a  war,  whose  final  aim  is  determined  in  part 
by  the  course  of  events.  Hence  in  the  poem  the 
strenuous  effort  to  say  the  most  cutting  things  with- 
out seeming  to  have  said  them,  and  the  striving  in 
the  face  of  deadly  insult  to  assume  a  most  flattering 
tone  of  submission.  Voltaire,  like  a  hornet,  is  playing 
round  the  fruits  and  flowers  (apparently  a  most  in- 
nocent creature),  until  he  suddenly  swoops  upon  his 
victim  and  seems  to  have  hesitated  so  long  only  to  find 
the  best  place  to  inflict  the  wound  and  insert  his 
poison.  Here  he  is  a  perfect  devil,  and  the  terror  his 
attacks  inspired  was  as  great  a  safeguard  as  the  sub- 
tlety with  which  he  afterwards  defended  himself. 

Voltaire's  relations  to  the  Cathohc  Church  later  be- 
came so  complicated  as  to  demand  the  exercise  of  all 
his  talents.     Endowed  by  nature  with  marvellous  gifts 


FRANCE   AND   VOLTAIRE.  77 

for  intellectual  conflicts,  he  found  incessani  practice 
for  them.  He  was  never  in  his  whole  life  witliout 
these  strifes.  No  passion  so  completely  developed  all 
his  mental  power  as  hate.  As  a  hater  he  is  unrivalled 
except  perhaps  by  Aretin,  who  is  certainly  the  only 
one  to  contest  the  palm  with  him.  Voltaire  was 
untiring  where  he  hated.  He  hunted  people  to  death ; 
he  lied,  he  slandered,  he  hit  upon  the  most  original 
devices  for  bringing  his  rival  mto  disgrace.  It  was  as 
if  to  add  the  last  sublime  touch  to  his  infamy  that  on 
his  death-bed  he  uttered  the  he  that  he  should  leave 
the  world  without  any  feeling  of  hatred  toward  his 
enemies.  If  Voltaire  had  met  Maupertius  (who  alien- 
ated Frederic  II  from  him)  in  Charon's  boat,  he  would 
then  and  there  have  seized  him  by  the  throat  and  tried 
to  fling  him  into  the  Styx.  A  thirst  for  revenge,  —  an 
enemy,  —  was  a  Hving  need  to  his  soul ;  he  had  a  posi- 
tive talent  for  provoking  insults,  as  if  longing  to  have 
an  adversary  that  he  might  persecute  him. 

Eegarded  from  this  point  of  view,  Voltaire's  char' 
acter  must  awaken  a  contempt  not  wholly  counter- 
balanced by  his  noble  defence  and  self-sacrifice  in  the 
cause  of  the  innocent  ones  who  were  basely  accused 
and  deserted  by  the  rest  of  the  world.  In  the  war 
agamst  the  prejudices  of  the  Church  and  the  Law 
Voltaire  won  victories  m  favor  of  some  poor  souls 
who  must  have  been  ruthlessly  murdered  but  for  him, 
which  have  lent  to  his  name  imperishable  splendor. 
Nevertheless,   whosoever   reads    the    passages    in   his 


78  FRANCE   AND   VOLTAIRE. 

writings,  where  out  of  sheer  revenge  he  casts  suspicion 
on  the  private  life  of  Frederick  the  Great,  must  feel  an 
inextinguishable  aversion  to  a  man  who  could  descend 
to  such  low  insults.  The  only  salvation  for  Voltaire 
here  is  in  taking  into  account  his  nationahty,  and  there- 
fore only  are  we  able  to  beheve  that  his  hfe-long  war 
against  Eome  for  freedom  of  thought,  in  the  beginning 
grew  out  of  casual,  purely  accidental,  circumstances. 

It  was  mainly  owing  to  the  Hcnriade  that  Voltaire 
in  1746  was  created  historiographer  of  France.  This 
title  best  expresses  wherein  his  forte  lay.  He  was  a 
born  historian.  A  native  instinct  impelled  him,  Hke 
MachiaveUi,  to  write  out  with  mechanical  imjDartial- 
ity  all  he  could  gather  concerning  the  events  which 
came  under  his  notice.  His  prose  style  is  simple  and 
without  affectation.  The  masterpieces  he  produced  as 
historian  must  and  always  will  be  regarded  as  mas- 
terpieces. The  most  excellent  among  these  works  is 
the  Siecle  de  Louis  XIV.  For,  considering  the  value 
of  the  Henriade,  the  tragedies,  epistles,  poems,  ro- 
mances, and  whatever  else  fills  so  many  pages  in  his 
writings,  as  active,  essential  portions  of  universal  lit- 
erature, it  seems  as  if  we  could  dispense  with  them 
all  ;  but  the  history  of  the  Siecle  de  Louis  XIV 
steadily  increases  in  value ;  and  whoever  reads  it  must 
decide  that  it  is  one  of  the  books  which  it  is  necessary 
for  every  one  to  have  read. 

There  are  three  means  of  instructing  mankind  as 
to  what  has  happened,  or  is  happening, — plastic  art, 


FRANCE   AXD   VOLTAIRE.  79 

poetry,  and  historiography.  Plastic  art  is  the  purest 
and  simplest.  .  A  Greek  statue  literally  tells  us  noth- 
ing save  how  far  an  epoch  was  able  to  sustain  the 
highest  conception  of  human  beauty.  Of  the  earliest 
Egyptian  times,  all  knowledge  is  wanting  of  deeds  and 
personahties ;  we  have  only  names  and  works  of  art, 
but  the  latter  so  eloquent,  so  convincing,  that  we  do 
not  need  written  documents  to  persuade  us  men 
thought  and  felt  as  we  to-day.  "When  we  see  the 
living  stream  so  distinctly,  why  tell  us  it  was  a  stream 
with  its  windings  through  rocks  and  shoals  which 
at  times  impeded  and  at  times  accelerated  its  course  ? 
Poetry  is  the  transition  from  art  to  history,  and  deals 
also  only  with  the  universal,  the  ever-living,  the 
unchangeable  in  the  midst  of  changing  conditions. 
To  discover  and  explain  these  conditions  is  the  task 
of  the  historian.  It  is  for  him  to  spread  out  before  us 
the  transitory  external  circumstances  and  their  inliu- 
ence  over  the  formation  of  human  character,  and  the 
aspect  of  human  actions. 

If  the  incidents  before  Troy  which  Homer's  Eiad 
pictures  had  ever  actually  taken  place,  how  veiy  difier- 
ently  the  historian  must  have  narrated  them !  The  rel- 
ative power  of  Agamemnon  and  Achilles  would  have 
been  discussed ;  the  partisans  of  the  two  princes,  their 
secret,  selfish  motives  either  for  inciting  or  appeasing 
the  quarrel,  would  have  been  exposed,  and  statistics 
given  respecting  the  general  outward  condition  of  both 
Trojans  and  Greeks.     We  should  have  been  told  what 


80  FRANCE  AND  VOLTAIRE. 

the  Greek  trade  amounted  to  at  that  time  on  the 
shores  of  Asia  Minor!  what  interest  Egypt  had  in 
this  war!  and  as  regards  the  description,  statements 
made  by  Trojan  prisoners  would  have  thrown  flashes 
of  light  on  the  tone  of  the  city,  while  from  gossiping 
slaves  the  debates  between  the  Greek  chieftains,  and 
the  negotiations  of  Menelaus  with  his  brother,  would 
have  been  brought  to  light.  The  inconsistency  of 
private  counsel  with  public  speech,  and  the  influence 
of  personal  interests  in  bringing  about  great  eff'ects, 
must  have  been  exposed.  These  things  skilfully  mter- 
woven,  and  each  alternately  appearing  in  its  proper 
order,  —  what  interest !  what  an  abundance  of  so-called 
material ! 

But  supposing  all  this  had  been  at  Homer's  service, 
of  what  use  would  it  have  been  to  him ;  without  a 
glance  he  must  have  turned  aside  from  all  these  pre- 
cise and  interesting  details  consciously  to  invent  just 
what  the  Hiad  contains.  He  could  only  present  sym- 
bolic deeds,  only  out  of  his  own  imagination  create 
situations  in  which  was  contained  what  blank  reality 
never  brought  to  sight.  The  Iliad  is  the  product  of 
marvelous  poetic  calculations.  What  Voltaire  in  his 
Henriade  vainly  sought  to  attain,  by  rehearsing  the 
deeds  of  Henry  IV,  Homer  achieved.  The  poetic  power 
in  this  man  is  beyond  all  comprehension.  An  old  man 
with  the  fire  of  youth,  a  young  man  with  the  expe- 
rience of  age  !  The  situations  in  which  Achilles'  char- 
acter is  developed  represent  him  ever  in  new  lights, 


FKANCE   AND    VOLTAIRE.        ff  ^^      ,.,  81' 

and  ever  greater,  until  at  last  out  of  Titanic"^vagery  a 
child-like  reverence  and  gentleness  is  attained.  Achil- 
les' behavior  to  the  suppliant  Priam  is  the  most  touch- 
ing thing  ever  put  into  human  language.  By  degrees 
Achilles  rises  above  his  surroundings,  until  at  last  he 
stands  out  in  solitary  grandeur,  sole  hero  of  the  poem. 
More  than  once  Homer  withdraws  him  from  our  sight, 
but  only  to  make  his  reappearance  the  more  imposing. 
Wliat  modern  poet  surpasses  Homer  in  the  art  of  ever 
fascinating  us  afresh  by  change  of  scenery.  Scenes 
by  day  alternate  with  scenes  by  night,  meetings  with 
gods  and  men,  surging  billows  with  woods  and  moun- 
tains !  Very  natural  is  the  tradition  that  Homer  was 
a  blind,  wandering,  lonely  beggar,  for  only  a  human 
life  through  long  years  turned  in  upon  itself  could 
give  the  power  to  compose  such  a  poem;  only  tried 
experience  teach  such  careful  weighing  of  antithesis, 
such  unerring  skill  in  dropping  and  resuming  the 
threads,  or  such  inexorable  criticism,  which  does  not 
allow  one  superfluous  thought  in  so  many  thousand 
verses,  but  steadily  moves  on  to  the  end. 

Homer  succeeded  in  doing  just  what  Dante  did 
many  centuries  later :  he  gave  to  his  people  a  picture  of 
their  own  character,  and  made  his  poem  an  ideal  bond 
uniting  the  different  tribes.  Could  any  historian  have 
achieved  this  ?  Neither  Herodotus  nor  Thucydides, 
neither  Livy  nor  Tacitus  nor  Machiavelli,  were  able, 
like  Dante  and  Homer,  to  fill  the  souls  of  their  people 
with  a  consciousness  of  their  world-historical  position. 


82  FEANCE   AND   VOLTAIEE. 

But  not  every  age  gives  birth  to  such  poets  !  Virgil, 
although  he  has  held  the  admiration  of  the  world 
for  two  thousand  years,  has  never  been  able  to  do  more 
than  entertain  his  readers  ;  and  as  regards  Voltaire's 
Henriade,  although  in  his  own  century  it  was  read  with 
avidity,  it  never  more  than  excited  a  certain  sense  of 
piquant  enjoyment.  There  are  unpoetic  epochs,  suited 
only  to  historic  representation.  Voltaire  tried  in  vain 
to  make  himself  appear  a  kind  of  Prometheus  forming 
men  in  his  own  image.  The  clay  took  shape  under  his 
fingers,  but  all  his  blowmg  could  not  lend  to  it  one 
breath  of  life.  As  historian,  on  the  other  hand,  he  does 
what  no  one  could  have  done  better.  By  his  manner 
of  representing  events  he  proves  how  much  originality 
is  requu'ed  in  a  historian,  even  if  his  mission  be  some- 
what less  exalted  than  the  poet's.  It  does  not  suffice 
to  hunt  up  the  sources,  to  separate  the  false  from  the 
true,  to  arrange  and  classify  a  mass  of  material.  Gen- 
uine scientific  investigation  is  prompted  by  an  instinct 
whose  origin  defies  our  penetration.  A  mysterious 
connection  between  the  man  and  his  subject  appears 
essential  here  from  the  beginning.  The  true  historian 
suggests  the  picture  of  the  successful  gambler,  behind 
whom  stands  a  demon  who  directs  his  eyes  and  hand 
to  the  numbers  he  must  hit. 

Voltaire  as  historian  was  a  creative  genius.  "With 
a  sagacity  nothing  escapes  he  reviews  the  actions  of 
those  long  dead  who  once  gloriously  directed  the  des- 
tinies of  their  country,  conjuring  up  at  the  same  time 


FRANCE   AND   VOLTAIRE.  83 

these  shadowy  forms  to  speak  for  themselves,  with  a 
life-like  power,  motion,  and  individuality.  The  capacity 
was  his  to  apprehend  the  past  constellations  of  those 
who  once  held  the  sovereignty  in  their  hands ;  to  put 
in  as  background  the  turmoil  of  the  people  in  their 
every-day  life,  and  to  illuminate  the  whole  by  letting 
the  great  ideas  of  the  time  shine  forth,  beneath  whose 
fertilizing  beams  important  movements  were  carried 
through  and  their  aims  made  clear.  It  was  Voltaire's 
intention  to  write  a  history  which  should  represent  his 
people  as  the  last  and  greatest  among  the  nations 
that  had  played  a  conspicuous  part  in  the  history  of 
the  world.  To  us,  indeed,  to-day  the  trivial  nature 
of  the  French  supremacy  in  the  seventeenth  century 
comes  out  more  and  more  clearly,  and  we  hardly  feel  it 
worth  while  to  devote  much  study  to  this  epoch.  We 
know  its  main  features,  and  long  ago  ceased  to  cherish 
any  extraordinary  respect  for  Eichelieu,  Mazarin,  and 
the  French  dukes  and  marshals.  Yet  we  should  hke 
to  see  the  person  who,  after  reading  Voltaire's  Steele  de 
Louis  XIV,  could  maintain  this  indifference.  Voltaire 
succeeded  in  giving  a  universal  impression  of  this  age 
which  will  be  imperishable.  His  finger  followed  the 
course  of  men  and  events,  and  perhaps  only  the  lines 
which  he  has  traced  will  ever  impel  coming  genera- 
tions to  trouble  themselves  to  obtain  a  closer  view  of 
what  occurred  in  France  between  1650  and  1700. 

The  idea  Siecle  de  Louis  XIV  did  not  originate  with 
Voltaire,  —  rather  with  the  court  poets,  court  savans, 


84  FRANCE   AND   VOLTAIRE. 

etc.,  who  already  in  the  lifetime  of  the  king  had  taken 
advantage  of  the  flattering  term.  Voltaire  in  his  book 
never  once  degenerates  into  this  tone.  He  nowhere 
even  makes  an  attempt  to  pass  over  from  the  role  of 
reporter  to  that  of  panegyrist.  The  king  is  not  exhib- 
ited in  any  special  splendor,  nor  even  in  an  attractive 
light.  He  is  merely  the  axle  of  the  huge  mill-wheel  by 
the  help  of  which  for  fifty  years  European  events  were 
pressed  and  turned  to  the  glory  of  France.  Everything 
was  carried  as  grist  to  this  mill,  and  at  last,  when  for- 
eign corn  began  to  fail,  the  mill-stones  slowly  ground 
themselves  to  powder.  With  stern,  uncompromising 
truthfulness  Voltaire  sets  this  before  us. 

Frederick  II  said  of  Voltaire,  that  he  was  not  a 
savant,  but  a  whole  academy ;  and  one  might  add,  not 
an  actor,  but  the  whole  theatre,  not  an  individual 
Frenchman,  but  the  whole  nation.  He  was  epic,  lyric, 
and  dramatic  poet,  philosopher,  mathematician,  scientist ; 
in  each  department  so  rich  and  so  absolutely  skilful 
that  it  would  seem  as  if  it  must  have  been  his  only 
one.  As  historian,  he  reaped  the  advantage  of  this 
monstrous  versatility.  He  knew  precisely  what  he 
wanted  to  do.  He  writes  to  D'Argenson  (1740,  after 
he  had  begun  the  work) :  "  I  will  say  something  which 
may  seem  odd  to  you,  namely,  that  only  those  who  are 
capable  of  writing  tragedies  can  lend  an  interest  to 
our  dry  and  barbarous  history.  It  requires,  like  the 
drama,  exposition,  plot,  denoument.  And,  further,  why 
only  and  forever  a  history  of  the  kings  that  of  the 


FRANCE   AND   VOLTAIRE.  85 

nation  must  be  written ;  one  would  suppose  there  had 
been  nothing  in  Gaul  worth  the  trouble  of  committing 
to  history  for  fourteen  hundred  years  but  kings,  minis- 
ters, and  generals ;  are,  then,  our  customs,  our  laws,  and 
the  genius  of  our  people,  to  be  esteemed  as  nothing  ? " 
Here  we  have  Voltaire's  programme.  He  is  to  write  the 
history  of  the  golden  era  in  France.  At  home,  every- 
where, he  understands  men  and  things,  with  marvellous 
insight  findmg  his  way  to  the  heart  of  all.  As  regards 
style,  the  unsparing  amount  of  self-criticism  to  which 
he  has  subjected  his  writings  for  long  years  now  served 
him  in  good  stead ;  for  if  the  works  of  strangers  rarely 
impressed  him,  his  own  satisfied  him  least  of  all.  He 
pruned  his  productions  unmercifully,  and  was  untiring 
in  his  efforts  to  improve  them.  To  all  this  must  be 
added  his  great  political  experience.  In  France,  Eng- 
land, Germany,  and  Italy  he  stood  in  personal  relations 
with  the  most  eminent  men,  and  knew  exactly  how  his 
words  would  strike  and  influence  each  and  all.  Vol- 
taire's Henriade  was  the  work  of  a  young  man  who, 
groping,  had  found  the  only  way  in  which  to  move 
onward ;  his  Steele  de  Louis  XIV  is  the  same  work 
repeated  by  an  experienced  man,  who  knows  the  mean- 
ing of  every  step  he  takes,  and  is  familiar  and  satisfied 
with  the  path  he  has  struck. 

As  regards  the  simphcity  of  Voltaire's  manner  of 
presenting  his  subject,  so  that  for  the  most  part  he 
seems  to  speak  only  mezza  voce,  we  must  take  into 
consideration  that  it  was  not  necessary  for  him  to  per- 


86  FEANCE   AND  VOLTAIRE. 

suade  his  public,  Frenchmen  and  others,  that  France 
was  the  first  nation  on  earth  and  Louis  XIV  the  great- 
est king.  He  is  so  certain  of  this,  that  at  the  outset 
he  thinks  it  rather  important  to  reduce  this  feeling  to 
the  proper  measure.  According  to  his  deepest  convic- 
tions there  would  still  remain  more  glory  over  than 
one  could  use.  His  intention  was  to  expose  the  fail- 
ings of  his  country,  and  under  such  circumstances  he 
surely  might  venture  to  do  it.  When  Cicero,  Sallust, 
and  Tacitus  exposed  the  depravity  of  their  fellow-citi- 
zens, and  spoke  of  the  evils  which  finally  led  to  the 
decline  of  Kome,  they  had  no  other  thought  than  that 
Eome  herself  was  to  lead  Eome  back  into  the  paths 
of  virtue.  In  the  same  spirit  Voltaire  speaks  of  the 
injury  done  to  France.  What  would  he  have  said  had 
anybody  dared  to  suggest  that  at  some  future  day  Ger- 
many might  take  the  lead,  politically  and  intellect- 
ually, in  setting  things  to  rights.  Voltaire  hoped  for 
a  new  blossoming-time  in  France,  and  from  her  own 
fresh  shoots.  His  Siecle  de  Louis  XIV  was  to  be 
simply  a  mirror  held  up  before  the  eyes  of  his  na- 
tion. Voltaire  truly  considered  the  material  condition 
of  France  in  his  own  time  as  vastly  more  satisfactory 
than  during  the  heroic  epoch  of  the  former  century. 
"  Void  Vdge  d'or  qui  succede  a  Vdge  de  fer.  Cela  donne 
trop  envie  de  vivre  !  "  he  writes  to  M.  Dupont.  Only  in 
matters  of  religion  were  things  in  a  bad  way,  and  need- 
ing correction.  But  he  no  longer  makes  direct  assaults 
upon  the  Church,  as  in  the  Henriade,  —  rather,  taking 


FKANCE   AND   VOLTAIRE.  87 

higher  view,  seeks  objectively  and  without  an  accent 
of  passion  to  enlighten  his  readers  in  regard  to  the  his- 
toric development  of  ecclesiastical  relations. 

In  the  Henriade  Voltaire  rejects  Calvinism  roughly 
and  curtly.  He  pictures  it  as  falling  away  from  Henry 
at  the  moment  of  his  conversion,  like  some  bodily 
disease,  which  until  then  had  obstinately  clung  to 
him.  In  France  and  the  Catholic  countries  generally, 
after  the  Council  of  Trent,  Protestantism  had  been 
treated  systematically  like  a  kind  of  pestilential  dis- 
ease, which  must  sometimes  be  endured,  but  never 
shown ;  the  consciousness  of  its  existence  as  a  re- 
ligion was  well-nigh  lost.  Protestantism  was  negation, 
and  Henry's  conversion  is  not  as  with  an  idolater,  a 
Mohametan,  or  a  Jew,  —  a  transition  from  one  form 
of  worship  to  another,  —  but  a  step  from  nothing  to 
something.  The  truth  which  changes  Henry's  con- 
victions is  not  proved  to  him  by  controversy,  but  by 
external  phenomenon,  somewhat  as  in  a  romance  where 
a  good  and  beautiful  maiden,  of  noble  family,  simply 
by  her  appearance  rescues  a  dissipated  young  man 
from  his  low  life  and  raises  him  to  herself. 

How  differently  Voltaire  regards  the  matter  later 
on!  The  second  chapter  treats  of  the  state  of  Ger- 
many. All  the  free  cities  had  accepted  the  Evangel- 
ical religion  "  secte,  qui  a  semble  plus  convenahle  que  la 
religion  Catholique  a  des  peuples  jaloux  de  leur  liberie" 
and  in  his  essay  Sur  les  Mceurs  et  V Esprit  des  Nations 
he  speaks  of  the  rise  of  Protestantism  and  its  necessity 
as  serenely  as  any  Protestant. 


88  FRANCE   AND   VOLTAIRE. 

Voltaire's  great  idea  was  tolerance.  Frederick  II, 
in  his  eulogy  on  Voltaire  after  his  death,  points  to 
the  service  which  he  rendered  mankind  in  this  direc- 
tion as  being  his  greatest  and  most  lasting  one.  The 
idea  developed  gradually  in  his  mind  with  all  its 
consequences,  until  it  became  a  centralized  force, 
giving  unity  of  meaning  to  all  liis  varied  efforts.  He 
made  this  the  watchword  of  his  school  and  party. 
Tolerance,  although  a  positive  idea,  was  conceived 
by  Voltaire  as  intensely  active ;  he  waged  open  war 
against  intolerance,  and  rightly  found  in  this  the  germ 
of  the  Eevolution.  He  says  that  about  1740  the  new 
ideas  came  to  France  and  began  to  be  adopted  by  the 
people.  Beyond  this  beginning,  however,  Voltaire  him- 
self never  went.  He  never  contemplated  an  overthrow 
of  all  existing  things,  but  went  on  calmly  planning 
reforms,  since  they  seemed  somewhat  necessary.  This 
may  account  for  his  hatred  of  Eousseau,  and  his  dislike 
of  Montesquieu.  Montesquieu  went  to  work  like  a 
statesman.  Beginning  with  the  Frankish  times,  he 
pictures  French  constitutional  life  from  a  juristical 
point  of  view,  shows  the  way  to  proceed,  and  builds  up 
a  state  composed  of  honest  people.  Eousseau,  on  the 
other  hand,  wished  to  create  a  new  earth,  new  people, 
new  ideas,  —  in  short,  anything  that  had  never  been. 
Voltaire  did  not  care  to  trouble  himself  about  the  future. 
He  knew  the  limit  of  his  powers,  and  let  a  matter 
alone  for  which  he  was  not  equipped.  His  aim  was  to 
stand  in  the  front,  to  make  his  books  a  power  and  a  joy, 


FRANCE   AND   VOLTAIEE.  89 

to  be  the  herald  of  a  great  idea,  and  for  the  rest  to 
follow  his  own  bent  and  say  just  what  he  chose.  His 
special  delight  was  in  speaking  things  out  as  free  and 
boldly  as  he  saw  them.  He  never  used  flattery  except 
for  some  distinctly  personal  end ;  if  there  was  no  actual 
need  of  it,  he  perfectly  revelled  in  setting  forth  the 
naked  truth.  His  Steele  de  Louis  XIV  xb  written  with 
such  impartiahty  that  we  are  sometimes  tempted  to 
suspect  that  he  is  jeering  at  his  hero.  After  attrib- 
uting the  rise  of  Louis  and  the  height  to  which  he  rose 
to  a  series  of  lucky  accidents,  in  which  many  times 
the  king  personally  had  little  share  enough,  he  pic- 
tures the  gradual  decline  of  the  monarch,  the  mon- 
archy, and  the  French  genius  with  so  much  truth  and 
so  convincingly,  that  we  need  only  continue  in  the  given 
direction  to  arrive  at  the  point  ajjves  nous  le  deluge. 
Voltaire  foresaw  it  all  clearly,  but  to  build  a  Noah's 
ark  in  preparation  never  entered  his  mind  ;  where  all 
must  swim,  he  would  take  his  chance  with  the  rest. 
In  this  sense  he  was  a  genuine  Eevolutionist,  and 
Goethe  was  right  when  (Nov.,  1799)  he  said,  "  Voltaire 
had  dissolved  all  the  good  old  human  bonds." 

But  it  would  be  unjust  to  make  him  responsible  for 
the  Eevolution,  although  it  may  have  seemed  so  at 
that  time  to  Goethe.  We  know  to-day  that  the  old 
must  have  gone  down  and  the  new  arisen  if  Voltaire 
had  never  lived.  This  "  new  "  of  the  French  Eevolution 
was  the  irresistible  uprising  of  the  Tiers  Mat.  But 
we  could  more  easily  to-day  imagine  the  conquest  of 


90  FRANCE   AND  VOLTAIRE. 

Europe  by  a  horde  of  gorillas  than  Voltaire,  or  even 
Eousseau,  who  certainly  wanted  to  revolutionize  things, 
could  conceive  of  the  coming  into  action  of  that  power 
which  made  the  Eevolution,  and  whose  final  mastery 
in  France  has  been  signed  an*  sealed  by  recent  events. 

This  element  was  not  to  be  discerned  by  any  one  in 
Voltaire's  age.  The  French  Eevolution  of  the  last 
hundred  years  is  the  rising  up  of  the  Celtic  mother 
soil  through  the  Eomanic  superstratum,  which  till  then 
had  represented  the  genuis,  power,  and  wealth  of  the 
country.  France,  that  for  two  thousand  years  had 
manured  the  soil  of  the  Celts  with  Germanic  and 
Eomanic  blood,  has  to-day  again  become  old  Gaul. 

Dramed  to  the  last  drop,  worked  out,  exhausted,  in 
the  best  meaning  of  the  word,  the  French  race  has 
once  more  made  place  for  the  old  Celtic  mob,  which, 
rising  like  the  emancipated  leaven  of  the  people, 
covered  with  its  foam  the  remnant  of  Eomanic  ex- 
istence, and  dragged  it  down  to  itself.  We  see  this 
done,  time  after  time,  as  the  aggressive  power  grows 
stronger  and  the  defence  ever  weaker,  feeling  that 
the  moment  must  come  when  this  resistance  will 
draw  its  last  breath,  and  the  primal  Gaul,  commanded 
by  the  Druids,  celebrate  his  decisive  victory.  If  we 
would  understand  these  people  thoroughly  we  must 
consult  Csesar  or  the  most  recent  French  histories. 

Gaul,  converted  to  a  Eoman  province,  had  in  the 
course  of  five  or  six  hundred  years  become  decidedly 
Eoman  in  its  every  aspect,  with  a  people  speaking  the 


FKANCE  AND   VOLTAIRE.         ^      ^        ,    .91 

Eoman  language,  and   having  a   Eoman  otganizafeion. 

Cultivated  forests  grew  luxuriantly  where  formerly 
stood  only  pines  and  firs.  But  this  existence  drew 
its  vital  strength  from  Eome  and  languished  with  the 
decay  of  imperiahsm  there.  Too  powerful,  however, 
was  this  overgrowth  to  permit  the  Celts  again  to  as- 
sume the  role  they  had  lost  five  hundred  years  earher. 
The  Franks  came  over  from  Germany,  and,  uniting 
with  the  Eomans,  in  the  course  of  three  hundred  years 
formed  a  new  element  from  which  the  city  and  coun- 
try nobles  of  the  following  century  sprang.  Again  it 
needed  half  a  thousand  years  in  order  to  consume 
this.  We  have  hved  to  see  it  accomphshed,  and  to-day, 
when  there  are  no  more  Franks  to  be  found  capable 
of  holding  them  in  lasting  subjection,  the  leaderless 
Celts  attempt  once  more  to  be  a  nation  by  them- 
selves. The  fancy  of  the  crowd  offers  to  this  man  or 
that  the  supreme  power,  only  after  weeks  or  months 
to  give  it  to  another,  with  whom  the  pleasure  of  rul- 
ing for  a  few  short  days  stands  higher  than  any  con- 
siderations of  the  danger  to  his  country,  of  which 
all  alike  seem  unconscious. 

Voltaire  would  have  thought  this  a  frightful  dream. 
He  wrought  himself  into  such  a  fury  agamst  the  Eom- 
ish  Church,  that  this  conflict  at  last  became  the  sole 
interest  of  his  life.  Yet  a  Eomanist  and  a  Frenchman, 
in  the  Eomanic  sense,  he  always  remained.  Protes- 
tantism, rational  and  impassiouate,  —  therefore,  as  he 
acknowledged,  suited  to   Germany,  —  would  alone   in 


92  FEANCE   AXD   VOLTAIKE. 

his  eyes  have  been  sufficient  reason  for  excluding  the 
Germanic  nation  forever  from  occupying  the  position 
which  France,  as  successor  to  Spain,  enjoyed  as  her 
legitimate  world-historic  right.  In  these  contradic- 
tions is  to  be  found  the  solution  of  Voltaire's  often 
puzzling  and  apparently  double-faced  attitude  toward 
the  Eomish  Church. 

He  who  had  attacked  and  insulted  Eome  and  her 
priests  yet  believed  just  as  firmly  as  Machiavelli  had 
done  earlier  in  the  indispensableness  of  this  author- 
ity to  the  management  of  cosmopolitical  affairs.  Both 
argued  from  the  existing  state  of  things.  Machiavelli, 
who  saw  in  the  Eoman  hierarchy  the  source  of  all  evils, 
was  yet,  set  him  down  which  way  he  would,  linked  in 
bonds  of  friendship  and  interest  with  representatives 
of  this  fraternity ;  and  it  was  the  same  with  Voltaire. 
His  attitude  toward  Rome  was  like  that  of  a  good 
monarchist  to  his  court,  which  he  abhors,  without 
on  that  account  becoming  a  republican.  The  Eoman 
church  and  the  French  monarchy,  good  or  bad,  were 
stubborn  facts.  Apart  from  the  development  of  this 
Eomanic-French  element,  for  which  he  thought  and 
wrote,  Voltaire's  very  existence  would  be  inconceiva- 
ble. To  be  sure,  Celtic  features  break  out  even  in 
him,  but  only  as  subordinate  qualities.  He  would  have 
shuddered  at  a  vision  of  the  monstrous  storm-tide  of 
1790,  which  brought  such  immense  tracts  of  the  old 
Gallic  soil  once  more  in  contact  with  the  simlicrht. 


VOLTAIRE  AND  FREDERICK  THE  GREAT. 

Voltaiee's  Siecle  de  Louis  XIV  brings  us  to  Fred- 
erick the  Great.  And  not  because  the  king  appre- 
ciated it  more  than  any  one  else  in  Europe,  but  because 
Voltaire  was  chiefly  occupied  with  this  work  during 
his  second  stay  in  Berlin  and  Potsdam.  When  in  1740 
the  letter  was  written  in  which  he  explains  his  ideas 
to  D'Argenson,  he  had  already  confided  the  book  in 
manuscript  two  years  before  to  Frederick.  It  was  not, 
however,  completed  until  after  the  Berlin  times.  In 
this  work,  as  in  all  Voltaire's  historical  and  pohtical 
compositions,  we  trace  the  permanent  influence  Eng- 
land had  over  him.  A  letter  to  my  Lord  Hervey, 
Keeper  of  the  Great  Seal  of  England,  in  which  he 
discusses  how  far  Louis  XIV  was  worthy  to  be  made 
the  subject  of  an  historical  work,  is  usually  given  as 
preface  to  the  book,  but  it  owed  its  final  stamp  to 
the  influence  of  Frederick  the  Great.  Voltaire  had  to 
learn  from  personal  experience  what  it  is  to  have  a 
great  sovereign  directly  over  one,  to  live  with  him  in 
the  same  house,  to  eat  at  his  table,  to  be  the  sharer 
of  his  best  but  also  of  his  worst  hours. 

Voltaire  stood  in  need  of  a  strong  position  outside 
his  native  land.  As  a  young  man  he  had  fled  to  Eng- 
land, won  friends  for  himself,  and  for  his  writings  a 

93 


94      VOLTAIKE  AND  FREDERICK  THE  GREAT. 

constant  public.  Whoever  has  been  once  accepted  in 
England  finds  the  English  loyal.  His  books  were 
printed  in  the  Netherlands,  the  great  central  book- 
market  for  the  period  which  ushered  in  the  Eevolu- 
tion,  as  Venice  in  the  sixteenth  century  for  the  period 
of  the  Reformation.  What  Voltaire  thought,  wrote, 
and  printed,  like  the  works  of  Montesquieu  and  others, 
entered  France  only  as  contraband.  But  even  in  the 
Netherlands  books  did  not  come  out  so  smoothly  as 
among  us  nowadays.  Very  rarely  was  a  book  planned, 
written,  printed  and  offered  to  the  public,  all  within 
a  settled  time.  From  various  causes  important  books 
often  came  out  without  the  foreknowledge  of  their 
authors,  and  with  modifications.  Being  for  the  most 
part  circulated  at  first  in  manuscript  they  were  exposed 
to  mutilations  of  the  text  and  indiscreet  communica- 
tions to  the  bookseller.  Not  infrequently  they  were 
obliged  to  be  printed  anonymously ;  hence  many  were 
attributed  to  authors  quite  innocent  of  them.  Vol- 
taire's correspondence  is  full  of  matters  of  this  sort. 
We  hear  of  manuscripts  being  eloped  with  out  of  the 
hands  of  booksellers  who  had  come  by  them  unfairly, 
the  whole  account  sounding  not  a  whit  less  romantic 
than  the  release  of  fair  damsels  from  the  hands  of  rob- 
bers. Voltaire  writes  to  Frederick  that  he  has  suc- 
ceeded in  abducting  one  of  his  manuscripts  from  the 
bookseller  under  the  pretext  of  wishing  to  correct 
some  errors  in  it.  The  man,  after  much  diplomacy, 
brings  it  forth,  but  does  not  let  Voltaire  out  of  his 


VOLTAIRE  AND  FREDERICK  THE  GREAT,      95 

sight,  who  now  sets  to  work  with  ink  and  eraser,  not 
to  correct,  but  to  convert  the  whole  into  nonsense. 

The  reason  Voltaire  required  foreign  support  was 
the  necessity  he  felt  of  holding  up  before  the  Paris- 
ians the  Gorgon-head  of  his  unimpeachable  reputa- 
tion, based  on  the  decision  of  all  the  rest  of  Europe ; 
neither  the  people  nor  the  court  of  Versailles  must 
ever  dream  that  it  made  any  difference  to  him  whether 
he  was  regarded  with  friendly  or  hostile  eyes,  or  even 
if  they  chose  to  ignore  him  altogether.  Yet  it  was 
his  weakness  that  he  covild  not  live  without  the  gos- 
sip of  the  Parisians.  Like  the  breath  of  life  to  him 
was  the  feeling  that  France  was  dying  of  curiosity  to 
know  what  would  be  the  next  surprise  out  of  his  lips ; 
and  we  see  him  forever  exerting  himself  to  keep  up 
this  excitement.  He  alone  could  play  tragedy  and 
comedy  at  the  same  time,  and  the  world  should  look 
on  and  manifest  applause.  All  his  power  was  directed 
to  securing  this.  But  we  must  acknowledge  that  no 
one  was  ever  sent  into  the  world  with  such  capacity 
for  managing  his  public.  Only  considered  from  this 
point  of  view  can  Voltaire's  relations  to  Frederick  II 
be  rightly  judged.  Frederick  and  Voltaire  were  the 
two  great  actors  upon  the  stage  of  public  life  in  their 
epoch.  They  were  necessary  to  one  another.  In  the 
beginning,  however,  Voltaire  was  the  more  dependent 
of  the  two,  and  it  was  not  until  much  later  that  the 
parties  stood  on  equal  ground.  Frederick  was,  to  a 
certain  extent,  wholly  sufficient  to  himself,  and  often 


96      VOLTAIEE  AND  FKEDEEICK  THE  GREAT. 

bade  the  rest  of  mankind  "adieu;"  in  this  solitary 
realm  he  was  only  the  king  and  the  general.  Voltaire 
lacked  this  power  of  sustaining  himself  alone.  Here 
Frederick  had  the  advantage.  But  Voltaire  was  un- 
tiring, inexhaustible,  more  knowing  than  any,  more 
capable  of  expressing  himself ;  and  Frederick,  when  he 
descended  from  his  height,  —  since  it  was  not  possible 
always  to  live  in  solitude,  —  again  and  again  found  only 
Voltaire.  Herein  lay  Voltaire's  ascendency  over  Fred- 
erick. The  history  of  their  friendship  is  the  alternate 
struggle  of  each  to  maintain  his  superiority. 

The  record  of  Voltaire's  and  Frederick's  intercourse 
has  been  handed  down  to  posterity  in  three  volumes 
of  their  printed  correspondence.  The  first  is  from 
their  earliest  acquaintance  to  Frederick's  accession  to 
the  throne,  or  from  1736  -  1740.  The  second  volume, 
from  1740  to  their  rupture  in  1753.  The  third  volume 
contains  the  intercourse  resumed  by  letter  from  1754 
until  the  death  of  Voltaire  in  1778.  The  youth,  man- 
hood, and  age  of  the  king  correspond  to  these  three 
segments.  In  no  correspondence  does  Frederick  speak 
out  so  openly,  and  Voltaire  summon  all  his  resources 
to  exert  influence  over  another.  Their  relation  is 
in  itself  a  drama.  —  In  the  first  act,  the  hope  of  meet- 
ing face  to  face  and  living  together;  in  the  second, 
the  realization  of  this  hope;  in  the  third,  a  revulsion, 
growing  out  of  the  natural  impossibility  that  two 
beings,  each  of  whom  needed  such  a  wide  sphere  of 
personal  freedom,  should  stand  so  near  together ;  in 


VOLTAIEE  AND  FREDERICK  THE  GREAT.      97 

the  fourth  and  last,  a  reconcilement,  owing  to  the 
fact  that  they  could  not  live  without  one  another. 
Their  correspondence  consists  of  what  stirred  the  world 
within  the  years  1736-78.  These  three  volumes  be- 
long to  those  books  we  are  glad  to  take  up  in  a  leisure 
hour. 

The  correspondence  opens  with  Frederick's  sending 
a  letter  to  Voltaire  from  Berhn,  1736 ;  a  young  man 
of  twenty-four  years,  feeling  like  a  caged  eagle,  and 
with  a  yearning  for  the  intellectual  excitement  of 
France,  to  a  man  almost  double  his  age,  —  a  renowned 
leader  in  the  intellectual  realm,  and  revelling  in  the 
fulness  of  all  which  he  craves.  "We  must  not  for 
one  instant  suppose  that  Voltaire's  recent  personal 
trials  had  in  the  least  dimmed  the  lustre  of  his  fame. 
He  hved  in  retirement  in  the  country,  with  his  friend, 
the  Marquise  du  Chatelet.  His  Letters  on  England 
had  been  publicly  burned  by  the  hangman's  hand  in 
Paris,  and  he  himself  only  escaped  imprisonment  by 
flight.  His  enemies,  taking  advantage  of  his  absence, 
had  circulated  libellous  papers  and  reports  against 
him;  his  admission  into  the  Academy,  for  which  he 
had  been  proposed,  seemed  doubtful.  All  this  might 
trouble  him  but  little ;  very  welcome,  however,  at  such 
a  moment,  was  to  him  the  voluntary  homage  of  a 
king's  son.  Frederick's  letter,  breathing  the  utmost 
devotion,  gave  Voltaire  to  understand  what  high  value 
the  prince  attached  to  a  friendly  intercourse  with  the 
greatest  poet  of  his  age.     Voltaire's  seductive  flatteries 


98      VOLTAIEE  AND  FKEDEKICK  THE  GEE  AT. 

denote  no  less  plainly  the  intention  to  profit  by  this 
godsend.  A  decided  purpose  shining  forth  on  both 
sides  rivets  the  bond  from  the  beginning.  Frederick 
and  Voltaire,  each  in  his  way,  knew  men  and  the 
world  thoroughly.  Neither  concealed  from  the  other 
how  advantageous  the  new  alliance  seemed  to  him; 
but  one,  like  the  other,  soon  shows  just  how  far  he 
intends  to  go. 

Even  before  Frederick  had  expressed  more  than  in 
a  general  way  the  wish  to  see  Voltaire  in  propria 
persona,  we  suddenly  find  (at  the  end  of  1736)  in 
many  newspapers  the  report  that  Voltaire  is  visiting 
the  crown-prince,  who  has  also  sent  him  his  picture. 
To  both  these  rumors  Frederick  was  far  from  indiffer- 
ent. To  invite  Voltaire  to  visit  him  at  Eheinsberg,  at 
a  time  when,  to  raise  only  twelve  thousand  thalers 
behind  the  back  of  his  father,  he  had  to  carry  on  a  long 
and  tedious  correspondence  with  Suhm,  was  not  possi- 
ble ;  and  just  as  httle  dared  he,  in  the  face  of  his  father, 
send  his  picture  to  a  man  already  reputed  an  atheist. 
The  manner  in  which  he  discusses  these  two  points 
with  Voltaire  shows  that,  with  all  his  enthusiasm, 
he  knew  exactly  how  he  stood  with  him  and  how 
he  had  to  treat  him.  His  portrait  he  roundly  refuses 
to  give  him,  and,  with  respect  to  the  visit,  remarks 
somewhat  sharply,  that  it  would  seem  as  if  some  mis- 
chievous imp  had  whispered  these  stories  into  the  ears 
of  the  Dutch  journalists,  since  they  coincided  so  liter- 
ally.    Meantime  the  thing  appeared  to  him  the  more 


VOLTAIRE  AND  FREDERICK  THE  GREAT,      99 

improbable,  just  because  everybody  knew  of  it.  He 
said  to  himself  that  Voltaire  would  not  have  made  use 
of  the  newspapers  to  announce  his  intended  visit  to 
the  prince,  but  would  have  chosen  a  more  direct  and 
friendly  way.  Voltaire  could  not  fail  to  perceive  that 
Frederick  understood  him  and  was  on  his  guard,  and 
he  soon  found  out  who  gave  Frederick  the  key  to  his 
character  and  proceedings  :  one  Theiriot  was  Frederick's 
correspondent  in  Paris.  To  dislodge  this  inconvenient 
spy  is  henceforth  Voltaire's  chief  endeavor.  Soon 
letters  from  the  Marquise  du  Chatelet,  who  had  like- 
wise entered  into  friendly  relations  with  the  crown- 
prince,  contain  bitter  complaints  that  he  allows  Thei- 
riot to  send  him  all  the  stray  papers  and  brochures 
issued  against  Voltaire  in  Paris.  Upon  this,  Frederick 
declares  distinctly  that  he  shall  continue  to  profit  by 
Theiriot.  Notwithstanding,  we  see  their  mutual  rela- 
tion gradually  become  what  it  was  intended  to  be  from 
the  outset.  Voltaire  corrects  the  crown-prince's  lit- 
erary efforts,  and  in  poHshed  phrases  says  flattering 
things  to  him,  in  exchange  for  which  he  has  glorious 
prospects  of  what  his  pupil  will  do  for  him  when  he 
becomes  king.  Voltaire's  letters,  m  this  honeymoon 
of  their  acquaintance,  have  the  single  aim  of  accustom- 
ing Frederick  to  the  gentle  murmur  of  charming,  appre- 
ciative epistles  from  the  hterary  potentate  of  Europe, 
and  to  render  himself  indispensable  to  him. 

Had  fate  not  imposed  upon  Frederick  the  task  of 
being  a  great  king,  he  would  have  become  a  better 


100     VOLTAIEE  AND  FREDERICK  THE  GREAT. 

writer  than  was  consistent  with  the  duties  attendant 
on  his  high  vocation.  His  writings,  considered  apart 
from  their  author,  are  those  of  a  dilettante.  But 
writings  sometimes  are  not  to  be  considered  apart  from 
their  author,  whilst  their  mere  outward  form  and  style 
may  be  disregarded.  Frederick's  works  will  always 
stand  as  his  very  own,  and  the  value  they  receive  from 
this  fact  outweighs  their  deficiencies.  As  a  writer, 
Frederick  lacked  the  primary  essential  for  an  author, — 
language.  Alfieri  relates  in  his  memoirs  how  he  was 
forced  one  day  to  acknowledge  to  himself  that  the  two 
mother  tongues  which  he  inherited  —  the  bad  French 
and  equally  bad  Italian  —  spoken  in  Turin,  were  neither 
of  them  adequate  to  the  expression  of  ideas.  He  went 
to  Florence,  and  there  acquired  a  richer  language 
Frederick  was  not  so  well  off.  His  German  was  uncul- 
tured and  uncertain.  He  had,  indeed,  a  rough-and- 
ready  speech  at  his  command  for  every-day  matters, 
but  when  he  wished  to  use  select  expressions,  as  in 
some  letters  to  his  younger  brothers,  he  did  so  with 
awkwardness,  and  like  a  foreigner.  While  his  French, 
on  the  other  hand,  was  the  colorless  Parisian  jargon 
of  the  better  classes,  circulated  throughout  Europe  by 
wandering  nobles,  soldiers,  actors,  dancing-masters,  and 
wig-makers,  —  an  idiom  which,  by  study  of  the  gram- 
mar and  the  classics,  could  be  distilled  to  a  point  of 
chemical  purity.  Berhn,  through  its  French  colony, 
still  in  its  first  generation,  offered  better  opportunities 
for  the  acquirement  of  good  French  than  any  other 


VOLTAIRE  AND  FREDERICK  THE  GREAT.     101 

place  in  Germany.  Yet  facility  in  speaking  does  not 
compensate  for  what  is  an  indispensable  requisite  in 
writing ;  namely,  a  language  either  wrought  out  by  the 
writer  himself  from  its  provincial  peculiarities  to  gen- 
eral clearness  and  strength,  as  by  Goethe,  Lessing,  and 
Schiller;  or  one  which,  through  constant  interchange 
in  the  intellectual  centre  of  a  nation,  has  gained  such 
wealth  and  flexibihty  as  to  well  dispense  with  its  local 
characteristics.  Frederick  was  not  born  in  France, 
therefore  the  first  was  out  of  the  question ;  the  other, 
as  he  could  not  live  in  Paris,  he  must  obtain  artifi- 
cially. With  genuiae  royal  instinct  he  appealed  to 
the  highest  source,  and  herein  lies  the  secret  of  Vol- 
taire's indispensableness  to  Frederick  and  the  guaranty 
for  their  lifelong  intercourse.  Frederick  writes  to 
D'Argens,  at  a  moment  when  he  was  justified  in  hat- 
ing Voltaire,  "  He  deserv^es  to  be  branded  as  a  galley- 
slave,  but  his  French,  not  himself,  is  of  consequence  to 
me."  And  this  same  French,  one  day,  led  Frederick 
again  to  overlook  and  forget  all  these  "  galley-slave " 
deserts. 

In  considering  Frederick's  writings,  however,  the 
French  form  may  be  left  out  of  sight.  When  we 
reflect  how  constantly  and  actively  his  personal  super- 
vision was  demanded  in  both  civic  and  military  affairs, 
we  discover  him  to  have  been  an  emiuently  gifted 
genius,  not  only  as  a  man,  but  as  an  author.  His 
writings  interested  him  so  deeply  that  he  felt  every- 
tliing  else  to  be  an  interruption.     He  declared  literary 


102    YOLTAIEE  AXD  FREDEEICK  THE  GREAT. 

fame  to  be  the  only  fame  that  deserved  the  name.  In 
critical  situations,  when  his  mind  craved  relief  from 
the  unutterably  depressing  feelings  of  the  moment,  his 
Hterary  occupations  alone  afforded  it. 

It  was  in  September,  1759.  The  Eussians  and  Aus- 
trians  threatened  Berlin,  and  the  deadly  struggle  which 
Frederick  was  carrj'ing  on  for  Prussia  and  Germany 
seemed  about  to  concentrate  at  the  capital  Despair- 
ing as  to  his  future,  with  little  to  hope  for  from  his 
army,  the  king  saw  himself  in  the  wretched  plight  of 
one  limited  to  the  defensive  who  must  await  his  ene- 
mies' movements.  Long  months  already  had  this  state 
of  tilings  continued.  In  August  he  writes  to  D'Argens : 
"  BeHeve  me,  mere  firmness  and  resolution  are  not  suffi- 
cient to  sustain  one  in  a  situation  like  mine.  But  I 
tell  you  plainly,  that  if  fortune  now  deserts  me  I  shall 
not  outhve  my  fall  and  the  despair  of  my  country." 
Instead  of  any  decisive  change,  however,  day  suc- 
ceeded day  with  wearisome  monotony.  It  was  in  this 
mood  that  Frederick  wrote  his  ThoiigTits  Concerning 
the  Military  Talent  of  Charles  XII.  He  finds  him- 
self on  almost  the  same  spot  of  earth,  opposed  to  the 
same  enemies,  and  in  the  same  situation.  He  weighs 
what  that  prince,  in  thinking  over  his  campaign,  may 
have  had  to  reproach  himself  with,  and  what  had  been 
his  own  mistakes.  He  reviews  and  criticises  Charles's 
career  in  its  main  features.  "  My  intention  was,"  he 
begins,  "to  obtain  for  my  own  instruction  an  exact 
idea  of  the  military  character  of  Charles  XII,  King  of 


VOLTAIEE  AND  FREDERICK  THE  GREAT.      103 

Sweden.  I  judge  him  neither  from  the  exaggerated 
representations  of  his  admirers,  nor  from  the  distorted 
traits  his  detractors  have  lent  to  his  picture.  I  rely 
on  eye-witnesses,  and  on  those  facts  in  which  all 
his  biographers  agree.  We  regard  with  distrust  the 
detailed  accounts  of  historians,  enveloped  as  they  are 
in  a  mass  of  lying  insipidities  and  anecdotes ;  only  the 
core  of  great  events  is  authentic  and  credible."  In  this 
spirit  Frederick  goes  on.  He  grapples  to  his  work,  how- 
ever, not  merely  because  of  this  similarity  in  his  fate  to 
that  of  Charles,  but  because  he  finds  in  this  hterary 
labor  the  only  means  of  sustaining  himself  in  his 
unhappy  situation.  Wlien  in  later  days  Frederick 
records  the  history  of  his  times  and  his  wars  which 
thrilled  all  Europe,  he  speaks  of  events  which  he  had 
conjured  up  and  participated  in.  His  writings  are  like 
the  hieroglyphics  which  an  advancing  glacier,  while 
forcing  its  way  onward,  scratches  on  the  mountain 
walls.  Where  works  of  such  import  are  m  question, 
the  style  or  construction  of  sentences  are  very  second- 
ary considerations. 

By  no  such  path  did  fate  ever  entice  Voltaire  to 
write.  His  experiences  were  in  a  wholly  different 
realm  from  those  of  his  royal  friend.  And  this  differ- 
ence was  yet  another  guaranty  for  the  indissolubleness 
of  their  friendship.  Voltaire  knew  the  entire  world  of 
his  epoch,  but  with  such  a  nature  as  Frederick's  he 
had  never  met ;  and  Frederick  could  say  the  same  of 
hinz. 


104    VOLTAIKE  AND  FREDERICK  THE  GREAT. 

Voltaire  appeared  in  Berlin  (1743)  after  Frederick 
had  become  king.  How  brilliantly  these  first  years 
sped  away  at  the  court  of  the  young  monarch  has  often 
been  described.  As  yet  there  was  no  Sans-Souci;  and 
the  festivities  were  held  at  Charlottenburg,  where  a  num- 
ber of  youthful  brothers  and  sisters  surrounded  the 
king,  breathing  freely  at  last  after  the  long  heaviness 
and  constraint.  A  certain  exuberance  of  life,  wit,  and 
caprice  reigned,  and  a  crowd  of  great  and  little  lights 
moved  to  and  fro  while  Frederick  and  Voltaire  were 
the  grand  central  chandeliers  outshining  them  all. 

"We  need  only  to  remind  ourselves  in  what  circles 
Voltaire  had  hitherto  moved  to  feel  that  if  he  now 
bewitched  the  king  and  his  court,  he  did  it  consciously, 
in  the  way  of  his  trade,  and  not  because  he  was  for  the 
first  time  a  son  aise  in  Berlin,  and  the  intellectual 
lava-stream  burst  forth  involuntarily.  Voltaire  was 
almost  fifty  years  of  age,  and  he  had  entered  upon  life 
very  early.  It  must  certainly  have  pleased  and  flat- 
tered him  to  find  that  he  imited  in  his  person  the 
whole  scale  of  attractions,  and  all  the  machinery  neces- 
sary for  the  exercise  of  his  magic  power;  but  never 
did  he  for  a  moment  lose  the  feeling  that  he  was  a 
foreign  star  upon  this  stage  in  the  land  of  the  barba- 
rian, nor  ever  make  the  slightest  attempt  to  disabuse 
himself  or  his  friends  of  this  idea. 

What  mattered  this,  however,  either  to  himself  or 
Frederick  ?  Both  were  actors  in  a  glorious  drama  and 
in  the  eyes  of  all  Europe ;   they  divided  honestly  the 


VOLTAIKE   AND  FEEDEKICK   THE   GREAT.  105 

cost  as  well  as  the  success  of  the  undertaking,  Vol- 
taire knew  perfectly  well  of  what  value  Frederick  was 
to  him.  The  invitation  sent  him  by  the  young  mon- 
arch, to  whom  he  had  himself  drawn  the  attention  of 
the  world  as  to  an  infallible  Solomon  or  Alexander, 
having  made  to  a  great  extent  his  Europeon  renown ; 
his  reception  in  Berlin,  where,  as  philosopher,  poet, 
greatest  of  the  great  men  of  his  age,  he  formed  the 
centre  of  all  the  court  courtesies,  gave  him  a  chance 
to  revenge  himself,  in  the  way  most  consonant  to  his 
nature,  on  Versailles  and  Paris.  Now  they  saw  clearly 
what  they  had  lost,  or  might  lose,  in  him,  and  took  steps 
to  recover  possession.  On  the  other  hand,  Frederick, 
through  Voltaire,  attracted  all  eyes  to  his  capital.  He 
gave  to  the  scarcely  recognized  Prussian  monarchy  — 
to  the  royaitme  des  grandes  frontieres  —  an  intellectual 
focus  whose  beams  radiated  over  all  Germany.  The 
century  in  which  Voltaire  and  Frederick  Hved  was  not 
to  be  baited  alone  with  diplomatic  and  -martial  fame. 
The  princes  had  too  much  accustomed  their  subjects  to 
wars  and  alHances,  planned,  without  their  co-operation, 
in  the  chambers  and  ante-chambers  of  unapproach- 
able castles,  whose  results  often  affected  them  alone. 
It  was  not  France  which  made  war  at  that  time,  but 
the  Pompadour.  The  nations  did  not  bear  any  ill-will 
to  one  another.  The  mtellectual  portion  of  the  people 
knew  only  of  artistic  and  literary  interests,  and  Fred- 
erick, if  he  aspired  to  any  real  success,  must  appeal  to 
these  sympathies.     He  makes  Voltaire,  as  it  were,  his 


106    VOLTAIRE  AND  FREDERICK  THE  GREAT. 

prime  minister  in  the  realm  of  intellect  and  culture, 
that  Prussia  may  be  properly  represented  in  the  great 
republic  of  the  educated ;  and  Voltaire  understands  his 
position.  His  first  work  is  to  finish  The  Anti-Macliia- 
velli,  and  on  the  printing  of  this  book  to  do  what  none 
beside  him  could  have  done,  namely,  to  enhance  the 
sensation  it  naturally  produced  in  Europe  to  such  a 
degree  as  to  make  it  a  grand  success.  Voltaire  was 
able  to  lay  before  the  king  letters  containing  testimony 
to  his  royal  literary  fame  from  all  countries,  but  espe- 
cially from  Trance,  where  Cardinal  Fleury  himself  wrote 
to  him.  The  twenty  thousand  livres,  together  with  the 
equipage,  etc.,  which  Voltaire  later  received  yearly  in 
Berlin,  was  not  money  squandered  to  entice  a  distin- 
guished author  into  the  service  of  a  prince,  who,  in 
his  leisure  hours,  amuses  himself  writing  books.  Fred- 
erick was  much  too  sharp  an  economist  to  make  any 
unnecessary  outlay,  and  understood  human  nature  far 
too  well  to  seek  in  this  way  to  reward  a  truly  attached 
friend,  or  try  to  bind  him  closer  to  himself.  In  this, 
as  in  all  else,  Frederick  kept  the  main  thing  in  view. 
Therefore  Voltaire's  "  dirty  money  matters,"  as  he  calls 
them,  —  his  intrigues,  his  calumnies,  —  were  not  the 
cause  of  his  rupture  with  the  king.  Frederick  had 
lived  through  too  much  to  regard  these  as  anything 
more  than  inconveniences,  and  disagreeable.  He  knew 
Voltaire's  groundless  fancies  well  enough,  and  knew  him 
to  be  under  the  tyrannical  control  of  every  thought 
which  passion  suggested ;  while  as  for  the  money,  Vol- 


VOLTAIRE  AND  FREDERICK  THE  GREAT.      107 

taire  was  obliged  to  earn  a  fortune.  His  talents  were 
not  of  the  kind  to  admit  of  his  hving  like  St.  Francis, 
happily  married,  on  a  modest  income.  Frederick,  who 
realized  the  power  money  gives,  saw  through  this  more 
clearly  than  anybody  else,  and  the  ways  in  which  Vol- 
taire sought  to  increase  his  pile  were  not  the  worst, 
considering  the  times.  In  the  end  the  income  of  one 
hundred  and  sixty  thousand  francs,  on  which  Voltaire 
lived  like  a  lord  at  Ferney,  gave  to  his  power  a  sohd, 
indispensable  basis,  and  none  of  the  charges  against 
him  of  cheating,  speculating,  and  unfair  dealings  were 
ever  substantiated,  though  there  were  always  plenty  of 
spies  upon  his  track. 

Voltaire  and  Frederick  separated  because  two  men, 
each  of  whom  was  born  to  rule  supreme,  must  one  day 
feel  that  they  were  not  intended  for  personal  inter- 
course. Frederick,  a  young  king  just  come  into  power, 
of  daring,  imperative  nature,  issuing  day  by  day  irrevo- 
cable commands  to  be  straightway  fulfilled, —  standing 
before  the  map  of  Europe  to  contemplate  the  overthrow 
of  kingdoms,  which  he  knew  must  sooner  or  later  suc- 
cumb to  the  power  of  the  Prussians  and  Germans;  a 
man  who,  as  a  promising  author  had  been  treated  for 
many  years  by  Voltaire  himself  as  a  demigod,  could  not 
be  sure  that,  on  entering  into  the  intimate  communion 
of  mind  with  mind,  he  should  always  be  able  to  subor- 
dinate himself  to  Voltaire  with  that  delicacy  of  feeling 
which  the  poet  in  these  moments  might  expect.  It  is 
neglects  of  this  sort  of  which  Voltaire  afterward  com- 


108    VOLTAIKE  AND  FREDEEICK  THE  GREAT. 

plains  in  the  bitterest  tone.  From  the  very  first  day  he 
must  have  perceived  that,  even  in  the  open  province  of 
philosophy,  his  confrere,  wanted,  as  king,  to  speak  the 
decisive  word.  In  many  such  cases  Frederick  undoubt- 
edly displayed  his  royal  authority.  This  was  probably 
observed  at  the  outset ;  else  why,  after  his  successful 
dehut,  did  Voltaire's  friends  so  urgently  dissuade  him 
from  entering  permanently  into  the  service  of  Prussia  ? 
Voltaire  asserted  later  that  the  blue  eyes  of  the  king 
had  captivated  him.  We  will  not  think  too  slightingly 
of  this  confession :  there  must  have  been  a  fire  in  the 
king's  glance  which  kindled  and  charmed  irresistibly ; 
and  charm  and  incentive  were  all  Voltaire  asked  for 
in  this  world.  Frederick,  when  he  called  him  into  his 
service,  had  just  ended  the  Silesian  war  victoriously. 
It  was  as  if  to  fulfil  Voltaire's  prophecy  he  had  in 
a  few  years  vanquished  the  oldest  power  in  Europe, 
against  which  France  had  vainly  contended  for  a  cen- 
tury. Voltaire  felt  he  had  had  an  active  share  in 
the  deeds  he  had  predicted.  What  hitherto  had  been 
flattery  on  his  part  was  now  a  legitimate  tribute  of 
admiration.  Frederick  was  his  pride.  With  what  labor 
and  toil  indeed  had  he  equipped  this  young  philoso- 
pher as  his  scholar  for  such  triumphs  !  And  Fred- 
erick's letters  and  offers  corresponded  so  wholly  to  his 
expectations  !  To  be  sure,  they  knew  each  other,  and 
had  passed  through  some  experiences  already,  but  re- 
cent events  seemed  to  have  matured  and  elevated 
their  friendship.     Formerly  it  had  been   Alcibiades 


VOLTAIRE  AND  FREDEEICK  THE  GREAT.      109 

who  treated  Socrates  at  his  side  with  a  mixture  of  love 
and  petulance,  —  forgiven  in  him  as  the  exuberance  of 
youthful  vigor  and  genius  ;  but  now  Alexander  seemed 
to  have  called  Aristotle.  Voltaire  accepted  the  call. 
But  he  as  well  as  Frederick  followed  more  recklessly 
than  ever  the  bent  of  his  own  nature,  and  the  catas- 
trophe which  ensued  was  inevitable. 

One  is  inclined  to-day  to  judge  Frederick,  on  the 
whole,  somewhat  severely.  But  we  have  only  to  cast 
our  glance  round  upon  contemporary  European  sover- 
eigns to  feel  that  Voltaire's  names,  "  Hero,  Solomon  of 
the  Xorth,  Alexander,"  and  others,  even  if  flattery, 
were  not  misplaced.  Voltaire  never  mahgned  nor 
flattered  without  some  real  foundation.  Frederick 
was  a  prince  of  heroic  courage,  of  great  ideas,  and 
without  pettiness,  —  a  national  product  of  which  old 
mother  Germany  may  be  eternally  proud,  whatever  the 
future  may  bring  forth.  That  "  something  more  "  than 
mere  "  firmness  and  resolution,"  as  Frederick  writes  to 
D'Argens,  is  necessary,  in  order  to  hold  his  head  erect, 
was  recognized  by  Voltaire  in  those  early  days,  and 
the  world  will  feel  it  so  long  as  his  name  lives  in 
history.  And  this  power  of  volition,  so  prodigious 
when  brought  to  bear  on  public  affairs,  manifested 
itself  in  his  private  conduct  as  well.  No  one  can  rise 
wholly  above  his  birth  and  education.  His  father's 
odd  whim,  in  retaining  Gundlach  as  learned  man  and 
court  fool  in  one,  we  see  reappears  in  Frederick,  and 
not  merely  toward  Pollnitz.      Frederick  could   carry 


110    VOLTAIKE  AND  FEEDEEICK  THE  GEE  AT. 

out  a  hard  joke  to  the  point  of  cruelty  against  his 
nearest  and  dearest  friends.  We  feel  the  smart  in  our 
own  souls,  when,  in  the  course  of  the  correspondence 
with  D'Argens,  who  was  so  dear  to  the  king,  the  letter 
finally  conies  in  which  the  marquis,  then  living  in 
the  south  of  France,  bitterly  complains  of  one  of  Fred- 
erick's literary  jokes,  made  at  his  expense,  not  consid- 
ering how  deeply  it  must  wound  D'Argens,  who,  as 
an  old  man,  had  naturally  longed  to  see  his  birthplace 
once  more.  In  this  same  way  he  wounded  many. 
His  early  training  implanted  this  germ  of  hardness  in 
him.  He  was  suspicious;  he  was  pitiless;  and  the 
experiences  of  his  later  life  too  often  only  strengthened 
the  impressions  of  his  boyish  days.  Yet,  in  the  real 
depth  of  his  nature  there  was  kindness  and  a  guileless 
disposition  to  do  good  and  make  others  happy  when  he 
was  perfectly  sure  that  he  should  not  be  imposed  upon. 
We  have  unquestionable  proofs  of  this.  What  repels 
in  Frederick  is  the  perishable  alloy  of  his  century.  His 
unbounded  sense  of  duty  toward  his  people  has  been  a 
permanent  benefit  to  every  indvidual  among  them. 

Voltaire  was  simiHarly  organized.  He,  too,  possessed 
this  "something  more,"  which  carried  him  safely 
through  all  the  vicissitudes  of  life.  He  also  was  hard, 
inconsiderate  of  those  about  him,  and  disinchned  to 
put  any  restraint  on  himself.  To  be  forced  to  obey 
was  a  new  experience ;  but  Frederick  commanded,  and 
for  a  while  Voltaire  suffered  the  unheard-of  martyrdom 
of  conforming   to  the  will  and  humors  of  a   master. 


VOLTAIRE  AND  FREDERICK  THE  GREAT.      Ill 

who  often  enough,  in  his  eyes,  was  nothing,  after  all, 
but  a  poor  scribbler.  And  others  forced  their  way  in 
between  them,  si3irits  of  the  second  rank,  who  in 
Berlin  were  allowed  to  make  themselves  conspicuous, 
whilst  in  Paris  they  would  have  been  snubbed. 
Against  these  people,  at  least,  Voltaire  thought  he 
might  set  his  face.  But  in  vain !  The  king  would 
not  allow  it.  These  people  fought  for  their  very 
existence.  When  superior  people  are  ahenated  from 
one  another,  it  is  always  largely  owing  to  the  intrigues 
of  low,  ordinary  natures  who  stand  between  them. 
They  make  the  breach  and  keep  it  open.  A  rabble 
rout,  who  disappear  Hke  flies  when  we  would  strike 
them  from  our  foreheads.  Thus  we  see  the  ideal 
companionship  of  these  two  great  men  suddenly  rup- 
tured, and  invisible  hands  busy  in  rendering  any 
approach  in  the  future  impossible.  Frederick,  irritated 
and  stung  to  the  quick,  did  not  hesitate  to  abuse  his 
royal  power  by  setting  the  police  on  to  harass  Voltaire, 
which  insulting  treatment,  as  the  king  very  well  knew, 
could  not  make  Voltaire  any  the  less  a  sovereign  in  a 
higher  realm.  Voltaire,  on  the  other  hand,  lowers  him- 
self so  far  as  from  Frankfort  to  address  to  the  Eoman 
emperor  a  rousing  letter,  full  of  indictments  against 
Frederick,  and  privately  to  compose  that  description  of 
the  life  at  Sans-Souci,  which,  if  it  is  the  truth,  tells 
equally  against  him  who  participated  in  it  at  the  time. 
To  be  sure,  Voltaire  never  published  this,  and  may 
possibly  have  forgotten  that  he  ever  wrote  the  thing ; 

'[  unive' 


112    VOLTAIEE  AND  FEEDERICK  THE  GREAT. 

but  he  should  not  have  allowed  it  to  have  been  found 
among  his  papers. 

This  prelude,  however,  was  necessary  to  convince 
Frederick  and  Voltaire  that  fate  had  determined  them 
for  one  another.  What  they  had  lost  each  could  soon 
count  on  his  fingers.  For  almost  twenty  years  their 
friendship  had  been  the  envy  and  astonishment  of  the 
princes  on  one  side  and  of  the  literati  on  the  other. 
Now  all  saw  what  had  come  of  it!  Voltaire  before 
the  eyes  of  the  world  ignominiously  kicked  out  by 
his  royal  friend  (the  vulgar  phrase  assumes  an  almost 
tragic  significance) ;  Frederick,  after  having  deluded  the 
world  with  the  glamour  of  his  philosophy  and  culture, 
unveils  himself  as  only  a  somewhat  more  carefully 
whitewashed  despot  of  the  ordinary  stamp.  Fallen  from 
their  high  position,  both  now  appear  in  their  respective 
places,  no  better  nor  worse  than  the  rest  of  mankind. 

They  knew  well  enough  that  they  had  injured  them- 
selves !  But  for  the  present  it  was  impossible  to  do 
more  than  keep  each  other  in  view.  Voltaire,  after 
discovering  that  France  was  no  longer  the  right  place 
for  him,  established  himself  permanently  in  Switzer- 
land, there  in  villegiatura  soon  to  find  all  eyes  in 
Europe  again  riveted  upon  him.  Frederick  began  the 
war  in  which,  for  seven  long  years,  he  fought  for  his 
crown.  Where  was  now  the  man  who,  during  the  first 
war,  had  been  the  great  interpreter  of  his  actions  ? 
Popular,  in  the  present  sense  of  the  word,  Frederick 
never  was.     His  personality  and  his  successes  so  im- 


VOLTAIEE  AND  FREDERICK  THE  GREAT.      113 

pressed  the  masses  as  to  surround  his  figure  with 
heroic  splendor.  Frederick  and  his  grenadiers  became 
military  ideals ;  "  the  Zietenschen  Husaren  "  were  the 
"  Uhlans  "  of  the  last  century,  and  Frederick's  Ion-mots 
began  to  be  a  staple  article  in  miscellaneous  literature. 
To  all  this  was  added,  by  common  consent,  the  Ger- 
man language,  and  a  simple  geniahty  peculiar  to  the 
German  people,  but  of  which  Frederick  had  little 
enough.  The  king's  real  self  is  not  mirrored  in 
Germany's  admiration  of  him.  Frederick  was  lonely. 
He  did  not  enter,  even  with  his  generals,  into  right 
hearty  natural  relations.  He  always  carried  his  library 
and  literary  work  about  with  him.  Every  leisure  mo- 
ment was  devoted  to  them  ;  just  as  Napoleon,  sailing 
to  Egypt,  read  Werther,  and  whose  whole  expedition 
was  directed  either  by  historic  or  modern  scientific 
ideas.  Frederick,  in  general,  read  and  wrote  only  of 
what  bore  the  least  possible  reference  to  his  surround- 
ings. "When  he  could  give  himself  up  to  refreshing 
thoughts  it  was  to  correspond  with  people  to  whom  the 
war  in  its  most  important  phases  had  little  interest. 
What  did  the  Catholic  Marquis  d'Argens  care  whether 
the  good  cause  of  Germany  and  Protestantism  tri- 
umphed or  not  ?  And  even  Frederick's  historical  works 
had  no  public.  Of  his  Charles  XII  not  more  than 
a  dozen  copies  were  struck  off  for  distribution  among 
his  friends.  He  lost  his  old  companions  without  find- 
ing any  to  take  their  place.  His  mother  died.  His 
sister,  the  Margravine  of  Baireuth,  who  was  nearest  of 


114    VOLTAIRE  AND  FREDERICK  THE  GREAT. 

all  to  his  heart,  died  also.  The  decline  of  France  and 
her  hterature  he  comprehended,  but  not  the  rise  of 
Germany.  He  missed  Voltaire !  And  it  is  to  Voltaire 
that  he  turns  at  last,  and  from  whose  fresh  missives 
he  derives  consolation  and  diversion.  There  is  some- 
thing touching  in  this  testimony  to  the  poverty  of 
human  life.  These  two  men,  who  thought  they  were 
separated  forever,  now  approach  one  another  for  the 
second  time,  but  very  quietly  and  with  a  certain  reti- 
cence, as  if  feeUng  they  must  not  again  imperil  the 
precious  mutual  possession. 

Unfortunately  the  correspondence  is  not  here  wholly 
preserved.  Voltaire  had  just  made  some  advances, 
but  was  shipwrecked  because  Frederick  could  not  help 
seeing  that  he  was  to  be  enticed  into  saying  something 
which  should  reinstate  Voltaire  in  the  eyes  of  the 
world,  and  also  which  might  possibly  compromise  his 
old  patron.  This  was  in  1754,  a  year  after  the  rup- 
ture. Three  years  later  it  was  the  king  who  took  the 
first  steps.  Letters  were  wTitten  at  that  time  of  which 
we  have  no  knowledge  except  from  Voltaire's  allusions, 
but  it  is  pretty  certain  that  Frederick  first  took  up  the 
broken  threads.  Perhaps  his  nature  prompted  him  to 
wait  until  the  moment  when  it  had  become  indiffer- 
ent to  Voltaire  whether  his  relation  to  the  king  had 
a  sequence  or  not.  Whenever  prominent  men  have 
quarreled,  a  perfect  tabula  rasa  is  essential  to  a  recon- 
ciliation. Frederick,  to  use  Goethe's  expression,  had 
been  "  threshed  by  Fate  "  until  he  felt  able  to  do  with- 


VOLTAIEE  AND  FREDERICK  THE  GREAT.      115 

out  all  and  everything  except  the  one  man  who,  out 
of  millions  of  half-petrified  spectators,  saw  exactly 
what  the  matter  was.  Voltaire,  on  the  other  hand,  had 
tasted  so  many  of  life's  condiments,  that  in  the  end  it 
was  all  the  same  to  him  in  whose  kitchen  they  were 
cooked  up,  —  whether  of  high  or  low,  —  so  they  tickled 
his  palate,  and  the  "sauce  a  la  Frederic"  continued 
after  all  to  be  the  most  piquant ;  yet  even  this  he 
had  learned  to  do  without.  Nothing  remained,  there- 
fore, but  for  Frederick  to  give  Voltaire  a  hint  that  he 
needed  him. 

We  now  see  the  two  men  for  the  first  time  in  the 
genuine  relation  of  like  to  like.  On  the  4th  of  April, 
1757,  Voltaire  informs  the  Duke  de  Eichelieu  (one 
of  those  gilded  hangers-on  in  the  world's  history,  who, 
present  everywhere,  have  nowhere  done  anything)  that 
"the  King  of  Prussia  has  written  to  me."  Beuchot, 
Voltaire's  latest  editor,  adds  to  this :  "  The  letter  was 
dated  January  19,  from  Dresden."  Nevertheless,  with 
the  exception  of  one  insignificant  sentence,  it  has 
remained  unknown  to  the  German  pubKshers.  This 
letter  is  the  important  one.  In  the  beginning  the 
correspondence  is  rather  meagre.  It  betrays  an 
endeavor  on  both  sides  to  yield  nothing,  to  appear 
independent,  if  possible  indifferent;  not  until  1759 
does  it  flow  on  in  the  old  way.  From  this  time  noth- 
ing disturbs  the  mutual  understanding.  Lines  of 
demarcation,  to  be  sure,  are  precisely  indicated  and 
firmly  sustained :  Frederick  and  Voltaire  were  too  old 


116    VOLTAIRE  AND  FEEDERICK  THE  GREAT. 

not  to  channel  their  course  very  distinctly.  The  reader 
must  not,  therefore,  be  led  astray  if  occasionally,  when 
Voltaire  tries  to  play  the  mediator  in  diplomatic  affairs, 
he  is  unmercifully  snubbed  by  the  king  ;  it  is  on  the 
simply  human  ground  that  Voltaire  and  Frederick  now 
meet  without  misunderstanding. 

The  letters  in  which  the  king,  in  the  critical  mo- 
ments of  the  war,  gives  vent  to  his  despair,  contain 
the  deepest  and  truest  revelation  of  himself  that  he 
ever  put  into  words  ;  and  those  wherein  Voltaire  seeks 
to  sustain  him  will  always  be  quoted  so  long  as  his 
writings  have  any  claim  to  immortality.  If  at  other 
times  he  parades  his  satisfaction  at  the  king's  return 
to  him,  and  boasts  that  he  has  saved  Frederick  fi'om 
suicide,  this  is  characteristic  of  Voltaire,  whose  letters 
to  Frederick  lose  nothing  in  depth  and  weight  thereby. 
Nor  is  Voltaire  lowered  by  his  persistent  attempts  to 
regain  his  old  honors  and  be  triumphantly  recalled 
to  Berlin.  In  these  things  Frederick  remains  firm; 
Voltaire  inserts  his  wedge  in  vain.  In  the  end  this 
makes  him  independent  and  outspoken  to  the  last 
degree. 

"  Blessed  be  the  day  of  my  death,"  writes  Voltaire, 
April  21st,  1760,  "when  my  sufferings,  which  you 
have  chiefly  conjured  up  for  me,  shall  have  an  end. 
I  shall  not  leave  the  world  without  the  wish  that  all 
the  happiness  may  be  vouchsafed  you  which  perhaps, 
as  king,  you  really  are  not  capable  of  attaining. 
Would  that  philosophy  might  one  day  enable  you  to 


VOLTAIKE  AND  FREDERICK  THE  GREAT.      117 

develop  the  glorious  inner  core  of  your  being,  which 
is  distorted  by  passion,  by  unrestrained  imagination, 
by  ill-temper  (if  only  occasionally),  and  by  your 
peculiar  experiences,  which  irritate  with  their  sting, 
and  mfuse  poison  into  your  soul,  and,  finally,  by  the 
unfortunate  pleasure  (quite  indispensable  to  you) 
which  you  take  in  humiliating  the  human  creatures 
around  you,  and  saying  to  them  sharp,  insulting 
things,  both  by  writing  and  word  of  mouth,  that 
seems  the  more  unworthy  of  your  majesty,  because 
intellect  and  rank  have  raised  you  so  high  above 
them.  You  must  feel  that  these  are  truths  I  am  ut- 
tering." 

Frederick  was  very  Little  moved  by  this  letter. 
Voltaire  had  begun  by  putting  the  king  on  his  mettle 
as  "  philosopher."  "  I  will  not,"  was  the  reply,  after 
first  writing  of  indifferent  matters,  lay  the  past  upon 
the  rack  to  extort  confessions.  Your  behavior  no 
philosopher  would  have  endured  calmly.  All  shall  be 
forgiven  and  forgotten.  But  remember  this  !  If  you 
had  not  had  to  do  with  some  one  who  was  possessed 
with  a  kind  of  insane  passion  for  your  genius,  you 
would  not  have  come  off  as  well  as  you  did.  Once 
for  all,  let  me  say  to  you,  never  bother  me  again  with 
your  ill-treated  niece  [Madame  Denys,  who,  in  Frank- 
fort, was  arrested  with  Voltaire] ;  she  tires  me,  and 
has  not  the  merit  of  her  uncle,  to  compensate  through 
many  excellences  for  her  many  defects.  Moliere's  ser- 
vant-maid will  be  remembered  by  thousands ;  Voltaire's 


118    VOLTAIRE  AND  FEEDEEICK  THE  GEE  AT. 

niece,  by  no  li\'ing  soul.  Mr  verses  are  of  no  special 
interest  to  me.  I  have  more  important  affairs  in  my 
head,  and  the  muses  are  pensioned  off." 

Frederick  then  passes  on  to  other  things.  "In 
June,"  he  wTites,  "begins  the  new  campaign.  There 
will  be  nttle  to  laugh,  but  perhaps  much  to  weep, 
over,"  etc.  We  feel  that  these  things  absorb  him  so 
completely,  that  he  treats  the  old  personal  quarrel 
with  Voltaire  as  a  secondary  matter,  of  which  he  dis- 
poses curtly  and  distinctly,  in  order  to  come  to  the 
main  point.  After  all,  Voltaire  was  the  only  man 
with  whom  he  could  discuss  the  present  and  the 
future.  For  the  rest,  he  might  say,  or  leave  unsaid, 
what  he  chose.  In  1761  D'Ar<:^ens  writes  to  the  kin" 
that  Voltaire  had  purchased  the  freedom  of  returning 
to  Paris  by  his  dedication  of  Tancred,  wherein  he 
apostrophizes  the  Pompadour  as  tutelary  genius  of  the 
noblest  intellectual  interests  of  France,  and  Frederick 
rephes  that  this  is  to  him  an  affair  of  the  utmost 
indifference.  It  will  not  be  long  ere  Voltaire  again 
will  venture  some  species  of  impertinence  to  the  court 
of  Versailles,  and  be  forced  anew  to  make  off  with 
himself.  "  There  is  no  calculating  on  this  man.  The 
only  thing  in  which  he  is  consistent,  is  the  scraping 
together  of  money  by  the  most  ignoble  means;  and 
he  never  can  get  enough." 

Voltaire's  pubKc  abasement  before  the  Pompadour 
was  all  the  more  pitiful  that  he  ranked  as  the  most 
eminent  literary  man  in  Europe,  and  arrogated  to  him- 


VOLTAIRE  AM)  FKEDERICK  THE  GEE  AT.      119 

self  the  censorship  of  vice  and  virtue.  Yet,  shortly 
afterwards,  in  the  face  of  court,  justice,  clergy,  and 
public  opinion,  he  heroically  appears  in  defence  of  the 
family  Galas,  for  whom  he  alone  upon  God's  wide 
earth  is  pleading,  and  whose  innocence  he  proves  as 
clear  as  dayhght.  Voltaire  neither  flinched  nor  flagged 
until  their  honor  had  been  restored  to  these  people, 
"  Truly, "  as  Frederick  said,  "  there  was  no  reckoning  on 
this  man."  He  had  openly  scoffed  at  the  king's  liter- 
ary efforts ;  still,  Frederick  continues  to  send  him  what 
he  writes,  begging  for  his  opinion.  He  alone  could 
furnish  an  ode  which  gave  true  expression  to  Fred- 
erick's pain  and  grief  at  the  death  of  his  sister. 
Frederick,  as  survivor  of  the  two,  honored  Voltaire's 
memory  in  Berhn  by  an  oration  upon  his  death  which 
will  always  redound  to  the  credit  of  both.  Voltaire, 
on  his  side,  sharply  took  Frederick's  part  as  an  author 
against  the  French  Academy,  and,  without  the  king's 
knowledge,  earnestly  pleaded  for  his  admittance.  The 
Abbe  d'Ohvet,  in  a  new  edition  of  his  work  upon 
prosody,  had  criticised  Frederick's  writings  with  much 
severity.  Voltaire  refuted  this  attack  in  a  letter 
which  had  the  authority  of  a  manifesto  in  Paris,  and 
in  which  he  exhibited  the  king  as  worthy  of  an  hon- 
orable literary  position.  On  the  same  day,  January  5, 
1767,  he  writes  to  Frederick,  but  makes  no  mention  of 
t.his  defence. 

The  years  now  draw  on  when  the  king  and  Vol- 
taire come  to  stand  side  by  side,  as  old  people  who 


120    VOLTAIEE  AND  FEEDERICK  THE  GREAT. 

have  a  happy  past  behind  them,  for  which  the  present 
does  not  offer,  nor  the  future  promise,  any  compensa- 
tion. They  contemplate  themselves  with  calm  objec- 
tivity. "Am  I  not  a  man  with  faults  like  others?" 
writes  Voltaire,  in  the  year  1776  ;  and  the  king  rephes, 
"  Had  you  thus  spoken  twenty  years  ago  you  would  be 
with  me  now."  This  was  only  half  his  thought,  but 
the  other  half,  "  And  I  should  not  be  sitting  here  so 
bereft  and  lonely,"  rises  to  every  mind.  Frederick  felt 
the  world  was  becoming  strange  to  him ;  all  around 
had  grown  old  or  died ;  Voltaire  alone  remained 
young  as  ever.  They  now  try  to  be  of  comfort  to  one 
another,  and  the  correspondence  at  last  goes  on  peace- 
fully, as  it  had  begun. 

Eminent  men  require  their  historical  background  in 
proportion  to  their  importance.  For  Tieck,  some  part 
of  Goethe's  shadow  suffices  to  reheve  the  outHnes  of 
his  figure.  Herder  and  Lessing  demand  the  eighteenth 
century ;  Goethe's  background  embraces  all  the  grand 
moments  in  German  development ;  for  Blucher,  only 
the  "  Freiheitskriege  "  is  necessary ;  for  Stein,  the  social 
revolutions  in  two  centuries ;  for  Frederick  the  Great, 
like  Goethe,  the  entire  history  of  Germany ;  in  France 
—  for  Chateaubriand  —  the  years  of  the  French  Revo- 
lution are  enough ;  for  Diderot  and  Eousseau,  their 
own  century ;  but  in  order  to  estimate  Voltaire  prop- 
erly, we  must  bring  before  us  the  whole  history  of 
Eomanic  life,  from  its  beginning  to  its  very  close. 
Conceived  only  as  the  product  of  his  century,  Voltaire 


VOLTAIRE  AND  FREDERICK  THE  GREAT.     121 

would  be  a  kind  of  genre  figure,  alternating  betwixt  jest 
and  earnest.  As  fruit  of  the  whole  Eomanic  develop- 
ment he  assumes  graver  and  grander  proportions.  The 
accidental  is  effaced,  and  the  essential  comes  out  in 
strong  traits  which  disclose  the  secret  of  his  existence 
and  his  influence. 

There  is  going  on  to-day  before  our  eyes  a  world- 
wide revolution  unlike  any  that  has  preceded  it,  so  far 
back  as  our  eyes  can  reach.  The  different  nations  of 
Europe  suddenly  desire  to  exist  each  for  itself.  The 
mutual  influence  of  races  upon  one  another  (in  theory 
utterly  denied)  is  in  practice  to  be  limited  to  a  mini- 
mum. And  this  new  view  is  not  the  fruit  of  a  theory 
broached  by  the  learned,  but  a  spontaneous  impulse, 
thrilling  the  people  to  their  very  depths.  It  does  not 
appear  in  individuals,  but  stirs  in  the  masses. 

It  would  be  false  to  attribute  the  origin  of  this 
struggle  for  separation  and  isolation  to  recent  political 
events.  They  have  been  only  the  awakening  sun  shin- 
ing straight  into  the  face  of  a  feeling  which  had  long 
slumbered,  waiting  for  the  light.  For  example,  the 
aversion  of  the  Germans  to  everything  French  after 
the  Napoleonic  wars,  and  the  present  hatred  of  the 
Eomanic  nations  to  everything  German,  are  not  to  be 
ascribed  to  the  victories  on  either  side,  nor  to  conscious 
party  effort.  The  enmity  also  between  the  Slavs  and 
Germans  is  quite  mdependent  of  any  such  causes. 
That  a  man  like  Garibaldi,  in  whose  life  and  conduct 
every  heart-throb  of  the  Romanic  race  was  to  be  noted, 


122    VOLTAIRE  AND  FREDEEICK  THE  GREAT. 

could  take  the  field  with  France  against  Germany  is  to 
be  attributed  to  something  deeper  than  mere  infatua- 
tion for  the  name  of  a  republic.  Unnoticed  a  fruit 
had  ripened,  and  recent  events  were  the  storm  which 
shook  it  from  the  tree.  There  is  a  universal  law  by 
whose  commanding  force  great  masses  of  people  attract 
or  repel  one  another,  and,  by  moving  in  concert,  or  by 
their  separate  exertions,  help  on  the  general  intellect- 
ual progress.  Nations  demand  alliances  or  refuse  them. 
They  subordinate  themselves  voluntarily,  though  know- 
ing they  are  strong  enough  to  resist  or  rebel  like  mad- 
men, in  spite  of  the  consciousness  of  a  weakness  which 
prophesies  destruction.  At  the  time  of  the  so-called 
inroad  of  the  barbarians,  all  the  Germanic  people, 
sooner  or  later,  adopted  Eomanic  forms.  To-day,  the 
most  wretched  Celt  would  rather  go  naked  than  see 
himself  decked  out  in  German  garments. 

What  we  understand  by  history  is  the  knowledge  of 
the  mutual  relations  of  the  different  races  which  have 
occupied,  for  the  last  three  or  four  thousand  years,  the 
peninsula  called  Europe,  —  to  the  geologist  such  an 
insignificant  space  of  time  that  it  scarcely  serves  as 
a  cipher  in  his  calculations.  During  this  epoch  we  see 
distinct  nations  (which  we  assume  emigrated  from  the 
heart  of  Asia)  settled  in  the  same  spots,  showing  the 
same  characteristics,  speaking  the  same  languages.  As 
regards  the  same  places,  they  have  only  changed  as 
large  vessels  when  at  anchor  are  driven  to  and  fro, 
though  tethered  to  one  spot  by  wind  and  tide.     As 


VOLTAIKE  AND  FREDERICK  THE  GREAT.      123 

regards  characteristics,  they  have  been  developed  and 
modified  by  the  culture  of  different  centuries,  but 
remain  essentially  the  same.  In  the  languages,  the 
change  has  apparently  been  very  striking ;  but  it  is 
a  question  if  the  period  which  comes  under  our  obser- 
vation is  long  enough  to  admit  of  positive  conclusions. 
These  nations,  Greek,  Eomanic,  Celtic,  Germanic,  and 
Slavic,  have  remained  the  same,  not  only  in  them- 
selves, but  in  their  relation  toward  each  other.  They 
form  one  vast  organism.  The  Eomans  contended  with 
the  Greeks  for  the  possession  of  the  coast  of  the  Medi- 
terranean ;  the  Germans  with  the  Celts  for  the  Ehine, 
with  the  Itahans  for  the  Alps,  with  the  Slavs  for  the 
lands  lying  on  the  Vistula.  The  boundaries  of  each 
vary  from  time  to  time,  but  never  overleaped  certain 
limits.  The  only  real  change  that  has  taken  place  in 
this  great  body  during  the  three  or  four  thousand  years 
which  come  within  our  knowledge,  is  that  the  power 
has  been  transferred  from  one  race  to  another,  while 
even  this  change  seems  to  correspond  in  its  direction 
with  the  general  movement  of  the  peoples  from  the 
southeast  to  the  northwest.  It  is  our  hypothesis  that 
the  Germans  reached  their  present  habitation  as  part  of 
one  of  the  very  earliest  immigrations  from  the  east,  and 
it  now  looks  as  if  they  would  move  still  farther  west, 
even  to  America,  there  to  lay  the  foundation  of  new 
nationalities.  Yet  it  must  never  be  forgotten  that  this 
assumption  of  an  Asiatic  origin  is  merely  the  result  of 
scientific  speculation ;   for  the  European  races  all  look 


124    VOLTAIRE  AND  FEEDEEICK  THE  GEEAT. 

upon  themselves  in  accordance  with  their  traditions,  as 
aborigines.  And  a  patriotic  affection  for  one's  native 
soil  is  firmly  interwoven  with  this  belief,  whilst  as 
regards  America,  there  is  no  proof,  as  yet,  that  what 
originates  there  will  continue  through  the  centuries  to 
preserve  its  Germanic  nature. 

The  transfer  of  power  within  the  circle  of  the  Eu- 
ropean nations  comes  clearly  under  our  observation. 
All  the  development  of  strength  seems  to  have  this 
aim.  Twice  within  four  thousand  years  has  this 
change  of  leadership  shown  itself.  From  the  Greek 
race,  whose  origm  is  so  remote  as  to  be  legendary, 
who  made  the  connecting  link  with  central  Asia,  we 
see  the  leadership  pass  over  to  the  Eomanic,  and  later 
to  the  Germanic,  race. 

There  was  a  time  when  the  Greek  element  pervaded 
all  Europe,  and  there  was  a  time  when  Europe,  part 
of  Asia,  and  America  were  inundated  by  Eomanic 
streams ;  to-day  the  whole  earth  seems  becoming 
Germanized.  But  within  each  of  these  three  great 
epochs  we  notice  fluctuations  of  rulership  among  the 
various  nations  composing  the  race  in  power.  The 
various  epochs  of  the  Eomanic  supremacy  are  well- 
defined  and  familiar  to  us.  The  first  object  was  to 
overmaster  and  absorb  the  Greek  spirit.  AVhen  this 
was  accomplished,  the  Germanic,  Celtic,  and  Hiber- 
nian nations  in  their  turn  were  also  vanquished  and 
incorporated.  From  Eome  the  leadership  was  next 
transferred  to  Spain,  and  from  Spain  to  France.    The 


VOLTAIRE  AND  FEEDERICK  THE  GREAT.      125 

papacy  was  the  central  and  one  important  creation 
of  the  Eomanic  race,  its  last  and  greatest  achieve- 
ment establishing  the  undisputed  supremacy  of  France, 
to  oppose  the  growing  tendency  toward  a  Germanic 
empire.  Voltaire's  Siecle  de  Louis  XIV  is  not  only  a 
description  of  the  period  in  which  a  great  king  raised 
his  nation  to  the  height  of  prosperity,  but  it  is  the 
genius  of  the  Eomanic  race  taking  hterary  form  and 
flaring  up  mightily  before  its  final  extinction.  Like 
Voltaire,  all  these  great  men  of  the  Siecle  de  Louis 
XIV  lacked  the  lightness  and  buoyancy  of  youth. 
They  seem  to  have  come  into  the  world  old  in  thought, 
as  if  the  approaching  destruction  of  the  Eomanic 
world  weighed  upon  them.  They  rush  violently  for- 
ward and  crush  their  enemies ;  but  for  what  ?  There 
is  no  future  before  them.  They  astound  all  Europe 
with  the  fulness  of  their  culture,  their  wit,  their  art, 
their  poetry;  but  this  culture  is,  after  all,  only  a 
piquantly  flavored  rehash  of  the  old  Eomanic  spuit. 
The  wit  is  forced  and  cold,  the  art  a  distortion  and 
regilding  of  the  classic  ornaments  which  the  inhab- 
itants of  Italy  once  ravished  from  the  Greeks,  their 
language  the  last,  blossomless,  colorless  shoots,  spring- 
ing from  the  mutilated  Eomanic  roots. 

These  are  the  powers  from  which  and  for  which 
Voltaire  was  begotten.  His  nature  is  an  expression 
of  the  entire  Eomanic  existence,  whose  brilhant  de- 
cline was  through  him  to  be  immortalized.  In  this 
sense  it  was  Goethe  who,  with  nice  historic  percep- 


126  VOLTAIRE  AM)  FEEDERICK   THE   GREAT, 

tions,  best  understood  him  and  knew  how  to  picture 
him  in  the  place  to  which  he  belongs. 

We  read  in  the  appendix  to  Rameau^s  Nephew: 
"  "When  a  family  has  sustained  itself  through  genera- 
tions, we  see  that  nature  finally  produces  an  individual 
who  includes  in  himself  the  qualities  of  all  his  ances- 
tors, and  who  unites  and  brings  to  complete  develop- 
ment all  these  varied  gifts,  of  which  hitherto  we  have 
had  only  faint  indications  or  isolated  examples.  Even 
so  it  is  with  nations  whose  aggregate  accomplishments 
may,  if  fortune  favors,  be  brought  to  expression  in 
one  individual  Thus  was  incarnated  in  Louis  XIV 
the  highest  ideal  of  a  French  king,  and  in  Voltaire 
the  literary  genius  of  the  nation." 

Goethe  next  proceeds  to  enumerate  the  qualifica- 
tions it  would  be  well  for  a  literary  man  to  possess, — 
depth,  genius,  intuition,  elevation,  individuality,  merit, 
nobility,  spontaneity,  etc.,  —  ending  with  style,  har- 
mony, purity,  correctness,  elegance,  and  perfection. 
"  Of  all  these  varied  forms  of  intellectual  expression," 
he  continues,  "  only  Voltaire's  right  to  the  first  and 
the  last  —  depth  of  conception  and  perfection  in  exe- 
cution —  can  be  disputed.  Whatever  else  of  capacity 
and  skill  rouses  the  enthusiasm  of  the  wide  world 
Voltaire  possessed,  and  thereby  won  his  fame." 

But  Goethe,  in  conceiving  Voltaire  as  the  personifi- 
cation of  France,  denies  to  the  nation  itself  depth  and 
perfection ;  and  it  is  curious  to  observe  that  France 
here  reminds  us  of  the  Greek  world,  which,  in  its  last 


VOLTAIKE  AND  FKEDEKICK  THE  GREAT.     127 

phases,  no  longer  possessed  these  two  qualities  which 
so  preeminently  distinguished  it  in  its  palmy  days. 

Any  attempt  at  a  discussion  to-day  of  the  final  aims 
of  the  Germanic  race  would  lead  to  mere  vain  imagin- 
ings. Kothing  remains  for  us  in  the  immediate  future 
but  to  Hve  and  struggle,  and,  as  the  early  Eomans 
drew  their  spiritual  life  from  the  culture  bequeathed 
to  them  by  the  Greeks,  so  to  lay  the  foundation  of  our 
own  in  that  of  both  Greeks  and  Eomans.  The  safest 
guide  to  the  development  of  our  own  spirit  can  be  no 
other  than  a  knowledge  of  the  past  as  far  back  as  our 
sight  can  reach.  Luther's  new  Germanic  creation  grew 
out  of  a  thorough  comprehension  of  Eomanic  theology, 
Goethe's  poems  from  an  entire  absorption  of  Eomanic 
culture,  Frederick  the  Second's  truly  Germanic  poUtics 
from  his  clearly  seeing  through  the  mass  of  Eomanic 
intrigues  which  Machiavelli  (if  only  as  an  objective 
observer)  had  put  together  in  his  book  on  "  The  Prince." 
Frederick's  Anti-Machiavelli  formed  the  starting-point 
for  his  later  career.  Frederick,  who  was  a  pupil  of 
Voltaire,  who  only  spoke  and  wrote  French,  who  mis- 
judged German  literature,  and  often  did  not  understand 
German  nature,  was  yet  in  an  eminent  sense  the  first 
German  prince.  His  declaration  that  he  was  only  the 
head-servant  in  his  kingdom  contains  the  radical  idea 
on  which  modern  Germany  is  based,  for  everything 
would  go  to  ruin  among  us  if  the  feeling  were  once 
lost  which  now  leads  each  man,  the  highest  as  well 
as  the  lowest,  to  regard  himself   as   in   duty   bound 


128    VOLTAIEE  AND  FEEDEKICK  THE  GEEAT. 

to  the  service  of  his  country.  In  Voltaire's  school, 
however,  Frederick  gained  strength  and  light,  and 
therefore  we  have  to  thank  him,  so  far  as  his  influence 
here  came  in. 

This  sense  of  duty  is  the  strength  and  power  of  the 
German  nation  at  the  present  day.  The  astonishing 
absence  of  it  in  the  Eomanic  race  is  the  conspicuous 
symptom  which  betrays  its  retirement  as  a  governing 
one.  In  this  light,  the  recent  efforts  of  the  Eomish 
Church  appear  like  the  desperate  attempt,  by  means 
of  a  formula  in  which  dwells  unhmited  compulsory 
power,  to  lend  to  the  individual  that  support  which  is 
wanting  in  his  own  nature.  In  any  case,  these  means 
can  only  avail  among  the  Eomanic  nations. 

Voltaire,  when  he  took  the  field  against  the  Eomish 
clergy,  dreamed  of  nothing  of  this  kind.  Perhaps 
should  such  a  man  appear  to-day  and  be  deeply  moved 
by  the  danger  to  his  race,  he  might  be  found  on  the 
side  of  the  Church.  It  was  gratuitous  spite  in  the 
CathoHc  clergy,  during  the  Eestoration,  to  order  Vol- 
taire's bones  taken  out  of  his  grave  in  the  Pantheon, 
and  scattered  to  the  winds,  that  no  trace  of  the  great 
Frenchman's  body  should  be  found  to  serve  as  a  rehc. 
The  Orleans  were  said  to  have  succeeded  in  hunting 
up  the  bones  again,  and  had  them  reinterred  in  the 
old  place.  It  is  questioned  however,  if  they  really 
were  the  right  ones. 

The  memory  of  a  great  genius,  who  once  moved  the 
world,  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  frail,  earthly  mate- 


VOLTAIRE  AND  FREDERICK  THE  GREAT.     129 

rial  in  which  it  was  once  confined.  Personal  vices, 
and  even  virtues,  become  matter  of  indifference.  We 
see  the  earth  inhabited  since  time  began  by  innumer- 
able, ever  renewed  masses  of  people.  These  we  find 
inclosed  in  an  organization  whose  connection  has  been 
uninterrupted  so  far  back  as  our  knowledge  goes.  The 
aini  of  this  organization  is  to  furnish  to  each  individ- 
ual, in  an  ever-increasing  measure,  and  for  his  own 
progress  toward  perfection,  a  judgment  regarding  his 
fellow-men  and  the  earth  which  we  inhabit.  In  the 
striving  after  this  aim  there  is  no  cessation,  only  at 
times  a  hesitating  movement  which  is  generally  suc- 
ceeded by  very  rapid  hurrying  forward.  When  this 
stagnation  occurs  we  see  the  masses  left  to  their  own 
guidance,  helpless,  not  knowing  how  to  go  on ;  but,  on 
the  other  hand,  when  the  movement  is  rapid,  we  see 
this  brought  about  by  the  mfluence  of  single  men,  who, 
through  their  own  power  and  the  confidence  reposed  ia 
them  by  the  people,  gain  the  leadership.  The  memory 
of  such  men  may  remain  living  through  thousands  of 
years,  and  then  we  call  them  "  immortal."  But  if  their 
power  abides  beyond  a  certaua  space  of  time,  it  appears 
so  immense  that  it  is  no  longer  believed  in  as  an 
emanation  from  a  single  person,  and  the  individual,  as 
time  goes  on,  is  gradually  resolved  into  the  race  from 
which  he  sprang.  Thus  Homer's  poems  are  no  longer 
regarded  as  the  work  of  one  man ;  they  are  the  poetry 
of  all  Greece ;  and  the  time  may  come  when  Goethe's 
writings  will  be  attributed  to  no  individual  phenome- 


130     VOLTAIRE  AND  FREDERICK  THE  GREAT. 

non,  but  looked  upon  as  the  precipitate  of  the  entire 
inspiration  of  the  Germanic  race  at  a  certain  period, 
and  Shakespeare's  poems  appear  as  the  collective 
expression  of  an  earlier  epoch.  And  thus  Voltaire, 
?ralso,  will  perhaps  one  day  be  used  merely  as  a  word 
by  which  to  designate  the  last  dying  tones  in  the  lit- 
erature of  Eomanic  genius. 


FREDERICK   THE    GREAT   AND   MACAULAY. 

A  PHOTOGKAPH  represents,  as  it  were,  the  expression 
of  the  moment,  stiffened.  As  the  thing  looked  at  the 
very  instant  it  was  fixed  by  the  light  of  the  sun  on  the 
metal-plate,  so  it  never  had  looked  before,  and  never 
will  look  again.  For  a  change  in  the  subject  is  proved 
to  be  constantly  going  on.  The  sun  moves  farther, 
and  the  sharpness  of  its  light  depends  on  the  ever- 
varying  conditions  of  the  atmosphere.  During  the 
few  seconds  required  to  photograph  a  building,  it 
changes  in  appearance ;  and  the  face  of  a  man,  be  the 
sitting  ever  so  short,  reflects  quite  another  thought  at 
its  close  than  that  which  decided  the  look  when  the 
signal  was  given  to  uncover  the  apparatus.  Our  eyes 
are  not  practised  enough  to  discern  this  in  the  picture. 
But  no  force  works  independently,  or  by  itself  alone. 
The  incessant  changes  in.  matter,  the  never-resting 
thoughts,  intersect  each  other  in  all  directions.  Our 
senses  are  not  sufficiently  acute  to  follow  out  these 
radiations  ;  the  coarsest  only  reveal  themselves,  and  we 
say  (because  we  cannot  do  otherwise)  things  look  just 
as  they  always  have,  until  the  change  is  so  marked  we 
are  able  to  observe  it. 

The  thoughts  of  the  individual,  and  those  of  man- 
kind in  general,  meet  and  act  upon  one  another  accord- 

131 


132  FKEDEEICK   THE   GKEAT   AND   MACAULAY. 

ing  to  laws  as  yet  unknown ;  these  involutions  are 
among  the  great  mysteries.  One  thought  suddenly 
interrupts  another  and  forces  itself  into  its  place.  We 
strive  to  break  the  train  by  substituting  a  fresh  idea. 
Impossible !  We  give  it  up.  Uncalled  for  it  returns ; 
and  it  may  do  the  same  to-morrow  or  after  long  years. 
A  certain  thought  impels  us  to  an  act.  Of  this  we  are 
not  conscious  at  the  moment  we  yield  to  it,  —  nay,  often 
beheve  ourselves  influenced  by  a  very  different  thought 
beneath  which  the  first  lies  hidden.  The  will  of  an- 
other attracts  ours  as  by  magnetic  force,  and  at  the 
moment  the  change  of  action  occurs  we  imagine  our- 
selves the  guiding  power.  In  a  few  seconds  we  often 
decide  for  and  against  a  thing,  conclude  to  do  it,  and 
after  all  give  it  up  again ;  and  it  may  be  a  stone  we 
stumble  over,  or  a  bird  soaring  above  our  heads,  or 
something  which  mechanically  catches  our  attention, 
that  turns  the  scale,  and,  in  spite  of  the  vacillation, 
one  thing  or  the  other  is  done.  Like  a  grain  of  sand 
falling  into  a  clock  and  stopping  the  wheels  at  the 
hour  of  twelve,  it  might  have  happened  one,  twenty,  or 
sixty  minutes  later.  The  grain  of  sand  had  nothing 
to  do  with  the  point  of  time;  it  was  accidental. 

We  know  little  indeed  of  the  ways  our  own  thoughts 
take ;  still  less  of  those  of  our  best  friends.  Wliat,  then, 
can  we  know  of  the  thoughts  of  men  whom  we  never 
saw,  who  lived  centuries  before  us  ?  What  of  the 
intellectual  current  which  prevailed  when  they  lived  ? 
For  each  age  has  its  peculiar  atmosphere,  through  which 


FREDERICK  THE  GREAT  AND  MACAULAY.     133 

it  must  be  viewed  if  we  are  to  understand  it  clearly. 
After  the  Thirty  Years'  War  Germany  was  exhausted. 
Men  knew  little  of  the  natural  sciences  compared  with 
the  knowledge  of  to-day,  and  were  living  under  the 
influence  of  customs  and  habits  which  now  are  obso- 
lete. Who  would  think  of  judging  what  was  written, 
thought,  or  done  at  that  time  as  if  it  were  the  product 
of  our  age?  This  change  in  the  current  of  thought 
occurred  not  only  in  the  course  of  centuries,  but  some- 
times in  days  and  months,  as  with  us.  The  Anglo- 
Indian  war,  for  instance,  affected  the  entire  atmosphere 
of  Europe.  We  have  regarded  differently  since  this 
war  the  relations  of  the  Germanic  peoples  to  the 
Asiatic.  In  fact  it  has  reawakened  our  interest  in 
those  distant  nations  and  brought  them  nearer  to  us. 
We  have  also  seen  that  cruelties  are  possible  in  our 
day  such  as  were  hardly  conceived  by  the  wildest 
imagination. 

In  a  like  way  the  Prussian  war  has  changed  our 
mental  horizon.  So,  too,  the  gigantic  extension  of 
steam-power  and  telegraphs. 

Wlio  would  think  of  judging  Caesar's  military  opera- 
tions in  Germany  as  if  there  had  been  telegraphic 
despatches  in  his  day;  it  would  be  ridiculous!  But 
soon,  when  these  inventions  have  become  part  and  par- 
cel of  ourselves,  it  will  be  indeed  very  hard  to  imagine 
any  life  without  them. 

Shakespeare  describes  Csesar  as  fighting  with  can- 
non ;  of  course  we  all  know  better.    But  how  his  battles 


134  FEEDERICK   THE   GREAT   AND   MACAULAY. 

were  carried  on  no  one  can  say ;  for,  were  his  own 
accounts  of  them  twice  as  clear  and  exact  as  they  are, 
there  would  still  be  so  much  omitted  that  was  familiar 
to  his  contemporaries  that  we  should  need  the  Eoman 
pubhc  of  his  day  to  interpret  Caesar's  words  precisely 
in  the  sense  in  which  he  uses  them,  to  enable  us  to 
obtain  a  distinct  picture  of  his  manner  of  action. 

I  by  no  means  wish  to  suggest  that  we  can  know 
nothing  because  all  is  not  laid  open  to  our  observation. 
I  would  only  express  the  opinion  that  he  who  thinks 
to  enter  into  the  nature  of  things  by  anatomizing  them, 
to  understand  thoughts  by  disentanghng  them,  and 
pursuing  each  singly,  to  comprehend  the  fate  of  men 
and  nations  by  dividing  them  into  small  parts,  and 
these  again  into  smaller  and  still  smaller,  proposes  to 
himself  an  endless  piece  of  work,  and  one  for  which 
his  imperfect  human  faculties  are  wholly  inadequate. 
Let  any  one  appear  with  scent  fine  as  that  of  a  dog, 
eyes  sharp  as  those  of  a  lynx,  hearing  keener  than  the 
Indians  in  Cooper's  romances,  who  with  the  tips  of 
his  fingers  can  recognize  colors,  with  money  and  health 
enough  to  roam  incessantly  about  the  wide  earth,  still 
the  brevity  of  his  life,  the  prejudices  of  his  age  — 
arising  from  ignorance  of  what  is  still  undiscovered 
—  will  debar  him  from  that  comprehension  of  the 
whole  to  which  he  hopes  to  attain  by  study  of  the  in- 
finite details.  All  our  knowledge  is  fragmentary.  Wliat 
we  admire  in  great  scholars  is,  not  their  monstrous 
store  of   facts,  but   the   mysterious   instinct   through 


FREDERICK   THE    GREAT   AND   MACAULAY.  135 

which  they  were  led  to  collect  and  group  them  so  as 
to  deduce  therefrom  intellectual  perceptions.  This  is 
the  miracle  wrought,  when  through  the  contemplation 
of  outward  things  the  human  mind  becomes  one  of 
the  creative  powers  of  the  imiverse.  A  prescience  of 
the  whole  reveals  to  the  true  scientist  order  and  con- 
nection in  the  heterogeneous  mass  of  detail  into  which 
our  entire  life  seems  to  split  when  we  contemplate  it 
in  its  meanest  aspects.  It  enables  him  to  grasp  this 
world  firmly,  which  is  always  threatening  to  resolve 
itself  into  atoms,  and  to  hold  it  so  firmly  that  not  one 
particle  of  its  infinity  is  lost.  Our  curiosity  to  know 
thef  before  and  after  is  no  mere  child's  play,  without 
aim  or  object.  If  the  sentiment  of  things  is  in  us,  we 
learn  to  know  them  accordingly.  Everything  takes 
form  and  becomes  real.  The  whole  world,  illuminated 
by  the  brightest  sun  that  ever  shone,  would  be  as 
good  as  non-existent  without  the  eye  of  man ;  the 
whole  heaven  full  of  melody,  voiceless  without  the 
ear  of  man ;  libraries  replete  with  the  most  interesting 
facts,  dead  letters  without  the  mind  that  gives  them 
meaning.  Life  becomes  real  only  when  mirrored  in 
the  soul  of  man.  Of  things  and  phenomena  we  know 
little  indeed  in  ourselves,  and  see  them  only  as  some 
particular  man  has  taught  us  to  see  them,  and  name 
them  as  he  has  named  them.  He  came  forth  and 
observed  things.  He  was  endowed  with  a  mysterious 
perception  of  their  nature,  —  we  may  say  with  crea- 
tive love  for  them,  —  and  according  as  he  was  writer 


136     FREDEEICK  THE  GREAT  AND  MACAULAY. 

or  artist  found  words  to  represent,  or  power  to  shape 
as  he  saw  them,  the  forms  about  him.  Whilst  en- 
deavoring to  penetrate  to  the  core  of  all  phenomena, 
in  order  to  confirm  his  intuitions,  he  brought  into  life 
something  new,  —  a  book,  a  treatise,  or  a  picture,  by 
whose  help  we  are  enabled  to  see  what  he  alone  had 
seen,  and  to  approach  things  closely  as  he  alone  at 
first  had  done.  No  one  sees  the  most  common  fact 
without  the  spectacles  which  he  who  observed  it  first 
has  placed  upon  his  eyes.  It  is  surprising  what  curi- 
ous discoveries  we  make  when  applying  this  maxim 
to  art  and  science !  We  find  that  one  great  artist's 
conception  of  the  human  figure  had  through  long 
years  deprived  all  his  successors  of  the  power  to  see 
or  paint  it  otherwise,  while  these  in  their  turn  had 
drawn  the  public  after  them.  Postures  of  the  body, 
which  for  more  than  a  century  were  thought  beautiful 
and  natural,  or  at  any  rate  possible,  are  to-day  called 
ugly,  unnatural,  and  impossible ;  yet  men  and  their 
anatomical  structure  have  not  changed,  and  artists 
studied  the  nude  at  that  time  as  they  do  to-day.  So 
little  can  a  man  dispose  of  his  own  eyes !  The  trees 
were  mountains  of  moving  foliage  for  thousands  of 
years,  until  Claude  Lorraine  and  his  followers  painted 
them.  Now  we  see  what  is  picturesque  everywhere 
in  the  landscape.  Our  German  language  was  a 
clumsy  instrument,  which  none  knew  how  to  play 
upon ;  Goethe  drew  from  it  divinest  melodies,  and 
henceforth  the  art  was  inherited  as  so   much  given 


FREDERICK   THE   GREAT  AXD   MACAULAY.  137 

capital.  Our  minds  receive  a  conscious  and  an  uncon- 
scious education,  but  for  all,  even  the  most  trivial,  of 
our  acquirements  we  are  indebted  to  men  whose 
names  perhaps  are  never  heard.  "What  has  not  been 
pointed  out  to  us,  or  we  have  not  discovered  by  our 
own  power,  does  not  exist  for  us.  An  infinity  of 
knowledge  in  all  departments  will  yet  be  revealed, 
and  when  it  is  we  shall  wonder  how  we  could  have 
been  so  bhnd.  From  the  whole  wide  field  I  select 
histor}^,  which  alone  is  of  importance  to  us  here. 

It  is  conceivable  that  the  human  mind  released 
from  flesh  and  sense  might  float  above  the  earth,  reflect- 
ing hke  a  mirror  what  is  happening  below.  I  do  not 
suggest  this  as  an  article  of  faith ;  it  is  a  mere  fancy. 
But  let  us  assume  that  the  immortality  of  some  men 
takes  this  form ;  that,  untrammelled  by  what  had  for- 
merly bhnded  them,  they  hover  over  the  earth,  and  see 
clearly  revealed  all  the  vicissitudes  of  the  world  and 
of  men,  from  the  very  birth  of  the  planet.  The  past 
would  be  to  them  a  web  of  harmonious  beauty.  Every 
single  thought,  every  deed,  which  we  call  good  or 
condemn,  would  constitute  an  integral  part  of  it.  The 
falhng  of  a  leaf  and  the  yawTiing  of  the  earth  to 
swallow  up  whole  cities  would  take  equal  rank  among 
events,  because  the  same  Power  had  ordained  and 
directed  all. 

But  now,  suppose  that,  dreaming  on,  we  should  see 
this  spirit,  which  had  so  freely  surveyed  all  things, 
suddenly  forced  to  unite  itself  again  to  a  mortal  body. 


138  FEEDERICK   THE   GREAT   AKD   MACAULAY. 

If  the  liighest  talents  of  every  kind  were  bestowed 
upon  him,  would  even  the  faintest  recollection  of  liis 
former  state  be  possible  to  him  ?  He  would  be  bom 
in  a  certain  epoch ;  he  would  have  father  and  mother, 
a  country,  a  profession,  a  heart  that  loved  and  hated, 
vanities,  sorrows,  joys,  vexations,  despair,  and  rapture. 
"When,  even  for  a  moment,  could  he  enjoy  that  abso- 
lute clarity  of  mind  which  formerly  was  his  element  ? 
He  would  begin  to  doubt  whether  he  actually  ever  had 
this  freedom,  and  soon  the  very  memory  of  it  would 
retreat  Uke  a  dying  echo  into  the  hidden  depths  of  his 
soul.  The  prejudices  of  others  would  be  his,  however 
little  they  might  influence  hun.  His  family  would 
give  him  class  prejudices,  either  of  wealth  or  poverty, 
of  nobility  or  people ;  his  fatherland  would  make  him 
partial,  his  beloved  would  claim  and  receive  his  best 
feelings.  Wliat  would  remain  for  the  enjoyment  of  that 
boundless,  colorless  knowledge  into  which  he  was 
formerly  resolved  ?  A  longing  after  it  would  be  the 
abnegation  of  all  human  feelings.  But  if,  notwith- 
standing, he  makes  the  history  of  the  past  his  chosen 
study,  must  not  his  work  suffer  from  the  hindrances 
which  cloud  his  soul  and  prevent  a  free  comprehen- 
sion ?  He  writes  for  the  men  who  surround  liim,  and 
hopes  for  their  applause,  however  few  it  may  be  whose 
judgment  is  to  him  of  any  value.  He  must  espouse  a 
party ;  his  country  and  his  family  compel  him  to  do 
so.  Whilst  in  earher  days  he  had  had  the  hearts  of 
men  before  his  eyes  like  a  bee-hive,  where  he  saw  the 


FREDEKICK   THE   GREAT   AND   MACAULAY.  139 

thoughts  fly  in  and  out  and  do  their  work,  he  must 
now  guess  at  them  as  secrets.  Scraps  of  letters,  false 
confessions,  partial  one-sided  accounts  of  contempora- 
ries, marred,  unfinished,  or  untrue  copies  of  works  by 
their  hand,  fragmentary  memorials  of  every  kind,  out- 
ward matter,  all  from  which  to  build  up  a  new  man 
and  exhibit  him  to  the  world,  as  if  he  had  looked  thus 
in  life.  The  spirit  he  infuses  into  this  form  cannot  be 
deeper  than  his  own.  Qualities  the  original  once  pos- 
sessed, but  of  which  he  who  recreates  the  character  has 
no  knowledge,  or  no  correct  understanding,  he  cannot 
bestow  on  this  new  figure ;  and  if  he  were  fortunate 
enough  by  any  means  to  learn  the  innermost  thoughts 
of  the  original  he  would  lack  the  capacity  to  interpret 
them  rightly,  and  therefore  they  would  not  benefit 
his  productions. 

Every  historical  work  is  the  one-sided  view  of  a  lim- 
ited man.  He  may  be  the  wisest  of  his  age ;  never- 
theless, a  time  will  come  when  his  standpoint  also  will 
be  out  of  date  and  his  limitations  only  too  apparent, 
because  others  have  succeeded  him  who  taught  man- 
kind a  higher  wisdom  and  informed  them  with  deeper 
and  broader  knowledge.  The  historian  tells  the  little 
suggested  to  him  by  the  memorials  of  past  days  (which 
often  enough  he  does  not  fully  comprehend)  as  genuinely 
as  his  country  and  personal  surroundings  permit,  and  in 
the  way  he  thinks  most  intelligible  to  those  who  will 
read  his  writings.  He  conceals  many  things  intention- 
ally, often  the  most  important.      An  historical  work 


140  FEEDEEICK   THE   GEEAT   AXD   MACAULAY. 

which  aimed  to  be  something  like  a  photographic  repro- 
duction of  the  events  of  which  it  treats  would  be  a  con- 
tradiction. One  cannot  copy  what  he  has  not  bodily 
before  him.  ^^Tio  delineates  the  past  to-day  can  only 
represent  what  takes  form  in  his  mind,  while  exposing 
it  to  be  worked  upon  by  the  memorials  that  remain. 
The  question  is,  not  whether  the  picture  thus  gained 
is  mathematically  correct,  but  whether  it  has  life  and 
soul  in  it,  and  will  be  of  any  service  to  mankind.  "VYe 
acclimitize  plants  and  animals  from  other  lands  and 
zones.  It  is  not  our  object  to  develop  them  precisely 
as  they  were  in  their  own  home.  Soil,  light,  and  tem- 
perature may  cause  them  to  grow  into  something  C[uite 
different.  The  only  question  is,  can  they  exist  with  us 
and  are  they  of  any  use  ?  The  history  of  Eome  which 
is  being  written  to-day  has  little  to  do  with  old  Eome. 
Every  land,  every  age,  indeed,  every  individual  scholar, 
will  conceive  it  differently.  Its  author  reads  and  stud- 
ies the  vestiges  still  to  be  found  of  the  Eoman  people, 
and,  in  conjunction  with  the  ideal  which  education 
and  country  have  implanted  in  his  soul,  arises  a  con- 
ception which  he  puts  into  words ;  but  how  is  it  pos- 
sible that  this  should  be  a  true,  colorless  picture  of 
the  condition  of  things  thousands  of  years  ago  ?  Like 
poetry,  sculpture,  and  painting,  historiography  requires 
an  artist.  Eaphael  did  not  represent  what  he  had 
before  him.  Let  any  one  compare  his  studies  and  the 
draperies  with  the  figures  themselves  for  which  they 
served.     He  only  completes  with  their  help  a  picture 


FEEDERICK  THE   GREAT   AND   MACAULAY.         141 

which  did  not  at  once  stand  clearly  enough  before  his 
soul ;  he  uses,  as  it  were,  an  alloy,  as  one  adds  copper 
to  gold  in  order  to  be  able  to  stamp  the  coin.  The 
historian  knows  the  facts,  and  in  the  course  of  his 
life  has  formed  certain  theories  which,  in  his  opinion, 
would  benefit  the  people.  These  last  are  the  main 
thing,  and  the  history  which  he  writes  only  the  illus- 
tration. Who  writes  history  in  any  other  way  heaps 
up  a  confused  mass  of  apparently  correct  facts  for 
whose  veracity  there  is  no  guaranty.  For  facts  in 
which  a  definite  idea  is  not  laid  down  hardly  admit 
of  representation ;  they  are  virtually  outside  of  intel- 
lectual knowledge. 

Man  himself  is  the  standard  for  human  actions.  To 
many,  history  consists  simply  in  the  enumeration  of 
their  ancestors,  whether  they  were  good  or  bad  being 
matter  of  indifference.  The  Egyptians  are  satisfied 
with  lists  of  their  kings,  and  with  knowing  the  length 
of  time  each  reigned ;  the  Jews,  with  the  simplest  gen- 
ealogy. Every  nation  writes  its  own  history  until  it 
comes  into  contact  with  another  nation  which  is  its 
intellectual  superior,  and  whose  prejudices  rest  on  a 
nobler  basis  than  its  own.  To-day  the  Germans  take 
foremost  rank  among  the  European  nations.  That  a 
German  should  write  a  history  of  France,  Italy,  Rus- 
sia, or  Turkey  would  seem  nowise  unsuitable  or  con- 
tradictory ;  but  imagine  an  Italian,  Frenchman,  or  Turk 
undertaking  to  write  a  history  of  Germany !  If  the 
bouk,  by  any  chance,  imposed  on  some  innocent  mind, 


142  FKEDERICK   THE    GKEAT   AND   MACAULAY. 

because  written  in  a  foreign  language,  it  would  be  only 
necessary  to  translate  it.  A  Russian  has  written  a  life 
of  Mozart,  and,  elated  by  tlie  success  of  his  work,  one 
also  of  Beethoven.  Music  certainly  would  not  seem  to 
be  confined  to  one  nationality ;  but  is  this  Mozart  ?  is 
this  Beethoven?  They  are  two  musicians  to  whom 
certain  works  are  ascribed ;  but  as  living  individuals 
they  have  no  sort  of  connection  with  these  books  or 
with  the  opinions  expressed  in  them.  Is  it  Goethe  of 
whom  Lewes  has  written  two  volumes  ?  I  think  that 
we  Germans  know  him  better.  The  Goethe  of  Mr. 
Lewes  is  a  good  English  gentleman,  accidentally  born 
in  Frankfort-on-the-Main  in  1749,  whom  he  invests 
with  Goethe's  life  experiences  (knowledge  of  which  he 
obtained  at  second,  third,  or  even  fifth  hand),  and  who, 
moreover,  is  said  to  have  written  Goethe's  works.  The 
book  evinces  great  industry,  but  there  is  little  of  the 
German  Goethe  m  it.  The  English  are  Germanic  like 
ourselves,  but  they  are  not  Germans  ;  and  what  Goethe 
was  to  us  we  alone  realize.  Macaulay  writes  an  essay 
on  Frederick  the  Great.  Is  this  the  king  to  whom 
Germany  owes  her  greatness  ?  One  would  almost 
believe  it,  so  graphically  is  he  portrayed ;  but  look  at 
him  more  closely !  It  is  a  pinched-up,  crabbed  lord's 
face,  with  snuff  on  his  nose,  —  a  man  in  the  very  worst 
society,  without  concentration  or  morality,  who,  for  the 
most  trivial  reasons,  begins  a  rapacious  war  against 
Austria,  pursues  it  aimlessly,  and  wins  at  last  by  sheer 
accident,  what  he  had  in  no  wise   earned.     In   this 


FEEDERICK   THE   GEEAT  AND   MACAULAY.  143 

light  our  hero  is  shown  up  to  us.  Our  enthusiasm  for 
him  is  a  national  error ;  not  virtues,  but  the  faults  of 
a  tyrant,  have  been  made  by  the  Germans  the  object  of 
idolatry.  He  was  no  mighty  sovereign  who  by  noble, 
legitimate  effort  restored  the  decaying  honor  of  his 
country,  and  thereby  of  all  Germany ;  but  simply,  as 
Lord  Byron  said  of  Bliicher,  in  reference  to  Napoleon, 
"  a  stone  over  which  France  stumbled  and  broke  her 
leg." 

Macaulay's  essay  is  the  criticism  of  a  book  which 
appeared  in  London  in  1842,  —  Frederick  the  Great,  and 
his  Times.  Edited,  with  an  Introduction,  hy  Thomas 
Camphell,  Esq.  2  vols.  8vo.  "  This  work,"  he  begins, 
"  which  has  the  high  honor  of  being  introduced  to  the 
world  by  the  author  of  Lochiel  and  Hohenlinden,  is  not 
wholly  unworthy  of  so  distinguished  a  chaperon.  It 
professes,  indeed,  to  be  no  more  than  a  compilation, 
but  it  is  an  exceedingly  amusing  compilation,  and  we 
shall  be  glad  to  have  more  of  it.  The  narrative  comes 
down  at  present  only  to  the  commencement  of  the 
Seven  Years'  "War,  and  therefore  does  not  comprise 
the  most  interesting  portion  of  Frederick's  reign." 

Macaulay  first  gives  a  brief  historical  sketch  of  the 
kingdom  of  Prussia.  Frederick's  grandfather  makes 
himself  king,  and  ridiculous  at  the  same  time,  in  the 
eyes  of  all  Europe.  His  son  and  successor  is  a  brutal 
t}Tant.  Frederick  II,  constantly  repressed  and  kept 
in  subjection  during  his  youth,  as  soon  as  he  mounts 
the  throne  manifests  all  the  evil  qualities  of  his  father, 


144  FREDEKICK   THE   GREAT  AND  MACAULAY. 

and  becomes  even  a  worse  tyrant.  He  is  stingy  and 
vicious.  His  court,  which  is  a  caricature,  is  peopled 
with  French  nonentities  or  scoundrels.  Out  of  the 
whole  there  were  but  two  persons  near  him  fit  to  be 
called  human,  —  Lord  Marishal  and  his  brother,  two 
Englishmen.  Frederick  is  a  wretched  fabricator  of 
verses  written  in  the  worst  possible  taste.  Without  a 
shadow  of  justice  he  begins  a  war  with  Austria,  recruits 
his  army  by  the  most  despicable  means,  depreciates 
the  currency,  pays  no  one  but  his  soldiers,  and  con- 
quers at  last,  simply  because,  owing  to  a  variety  of 
accidents,  the  political  conjunction  in  Europe  demanded 
peace.  These  are  the  contents  of  the  essay.  To  be 
sure,  withal,  Frederick  is  styled  the  greatest  of  the 
kings  ever  born  to  a  throne ;  his  practical  talent,  his 
perspicacity,  and  other  superior  qualities  are  recog- 
nized and  duly  admired ;  yet  we  close  the  book  with 
the  impression  that  this  renowned  monarch  was,  after 
all,  a  detestable  creature.  Nowhere,  at  the  first  glance, 
does  Macaulay  seem  to  have  misstated  the  facts,  or 
handled  them  unfairly ;  and  yet  we  might  call  the 
whole  false  and  untrue. 

One  cannot  demand  of  an  Englishman,  advertising 
an  English  book  in  an  Enghsh  journal  to  the  English 
public,  that  he  should  flatter  Prussian  patriotism,  or 
pay  any  regard  to  it.  Even  if  he  were  the  most  im- 
partial of  men,  we  could  not  expect  him  to  make  the 
Prussian  point  of  view  his  own.  The  Enghsh  con- 
sider other  nations  as  a  species  of  barbarians.     They 


FREDERICK  THE   GREAT   AND   MACArLAY.         145 

esteem  and  hate  those  who  withstand  them,  whilst 
such  as  yield  to  them  are  despised  rather  than  loved. 
At  the  time  when  Macaulay  wrote  his  essay  England 
was  a  little  less  estranged  from  Austria  than  it  is  at 
present,  but  Prussia  was  an  object  of  jealousy  and 
dislike ;  of  this  we  find  ample  proof.  England,  owing 
to  her  position,  would  not  be  inclined  to  regard  with 
pleasure  the  increasing  prosperity  of  the  North  Ger- 
man States.  In  the  last  war  the  English  signalized 
the  German  ships  to  the  Danish  cruisers.  Their 
policy  toward  Schleswig-Holstein  is  well  known,  and 
their  efforts  to  prevent  the  creation  of  a  Prussian 
navy. 

This  enmity,  if  we  may  so  call  it,  results  from  the 
character  of  the  people  and  their  circumstances.  It 
is  no  mteutional  malice,  but  a  natural  feeling,  which, 
owing  to  change  of  circumstances,  is  by  degrees  pass- 
ing away.  The  antipathy  steadily  lessens.  North 
Germany  and  England  are  dependant  on  each  other 
in  so  many  ways  that,  in  spite  of  jealousies,  the  Eng- 
lish and  the  Germans  will  draw  nearer  together,  just 
as  America  and  England,  notwithstanding  occasional 
rudenesses  and  hostilities,  must  grow  more  and  more 
friendly.  It  seems  decreed  that  England,  America, 
and  Germany  shall  rule  the  earth.  If  in  former 
times  the  Eomanic  belief  in  kingship  permeated  all 
Europe,  today  it  is  the  Germanic  conception  of  free- 
dom which  is  remoulding  the  nations.  We  have  at 
last  come  to  a  consciousness  of   this,  and  opposition 


146    FEEDERICK  THE  GREAT  AXD  MACAULAY. 

has  ceased.  But  Macaiilay  wrote  his  essay  before 
1848,  at  the  time  when  Louis  Philippe  was  king,  and 
the  world  in  general  old  and  worn  out.  To-day  it  is 
young  and  energetic.  Komanic  law,  rehgion,  and 
hterature  no  longer  permeate  the  soil  from  which 
spring  the  seeds  of  life  and  action.  The  German 
nation  had  never  willingly  yielded  to  this  influence. 
The  Eeformation,  however,  was  the  first  decided  step 
against  it ;  the  Thirty  Years'  War  brought  things  back 
into  the  old  ruts.  Frederick  the  Great's  victories  were 
the  second  step,  and  this,  too,  the  triumphs  of  Napo- 
leon seemed  to  render  of  no  avail  Then  came  the 
"  Freiheiteskriege."  The  scales  oscillated,  until  finally 
things  shaped  themselves  as  if  impelled  by  an  inward 
necessity.  The  gigantic  efforts  of  Louis  Xapoleon  and 
the  Itahan  church,  opposed  as  they  were  to  the  quiet 
progress  of  the  Germanic  races  and  their  faith,  ap- 
peared to  many  another  reaction.  But  it  was  not  so 
in  reality.  Let  Austria,  Eussia,  and  Italy  be  once 
completely  intersected  with  railways,  and  the  spirit 
of  Germanic  independence  will  find  an  abiding-place 
in  these  countries 

Frederick  the  Great  was  French  by  education,  wrote 
in  French,  philosophized  in  French,  and  discussed  the 
Eomish  church  in  the  tone  of  the  Yoltairean  school. 
He  never  banished  nor  persecuted  the  Cathohcs,  nev- 
ertheless his  victories  over  France  and  Austria  must 
be  conceived  to-day  as  triumphs  of  the  North  German 
Protestant  spirit  over  the  Eomanic  south.     These  two 


FREDERICK   THE   GREAT   AND   MACAULAY.         147 

sections  of  our  country  are  still  opposed  to  each  other 
as  Catholic  and  Protestant.  But  no  one  thinks  the 
South  German  church  identical  with  the  Italian. 
Seen  from  Eome,  all  Germany  is  Protestant.  Were 
the  language  of  Eome  German  instead  of  Italian,  we 
should  all  long  ago  have  understood  that  the  distinc- 
tion is  rather  one  of  nationality  than  faith.  The 
Eomans  demand  a  formula  and  a  tyrant.  They  do 
not  ask  why  you  are  a  heretic,  but  whether  you  are 
one  or  not.  If  you  are  not  a  heretic,  it  makes  no 
difference  what  you  do ;  if  you  are  a  heretic,  do  what 
you  will  there  is  no  help  for  you.  But  even  the  mere 
question  with  regard  to  these  things,  or  the  sHghtest 
coercion  attempted  over  the  inward  spiritual  life  of  a 
man,  is  thoroughly  hateful  to  a  German,  whether  born 
and  educated  north  or  south  of  the  Main.  The  ex- 
ternal tyrannical  influence  of  the  Itahan  church  over 
faith  and  unbehef  had,  since  the  tenth  century  (when 
the  Spaniards  reformed  the  papacy),  developed  into  an 
all-pervading  police  system.  Against  this  Frederick's 
hate  was  directed.  He  abhorred  fanaticism.  This  is 
one  of  the  reasons  why  his  wars  were  never  unpopular. 
North  Germany  should  be  extended  that  she  might 
assert  herself  more  effectually  against  Eomanic  South 
Germany;  therefore  he  took  Silesia,  —  where  more 
than  half  the  population  was  Protestant,  —  and  there- 
fore he  kept  it.  Macaulay  styles  his  invasion  "base 
treachery,"  and  adds,  that  as  it  was  an  assault  on  the 
\Vhole  community  of  civilized  nations  (the  strife  not 


148  FKEDERICK   THE   GREAT   AND   MACAULAY. 

being  a  mere  Austria-Prussian  one),  deserved  to  be 
branded  with  a  condemnation  much  more  severe.  If  a 
contract  like  the  Pragmatic  Sanction,  which  had  been 
set  up  and  guaranteed  in  the  face  of  all  Europe,  had 
proved  insufficient  to  protect  Maria  Theresa,  what 
sacred  right  or  title,  as  Macaulay  asks,  could  protect 
any  nation  from  arbitrary  attacks  ?  Frederick's  own 
words  are :  "  Ambition,  interest,  the  desire  of  making 
people  talk  about  me,  carried  the  day,  and  I  decided 
for  war."  All  Prussia's  claims  to  Silesia  were  art- 
fully contrived  pretensions.  And  now  he  goes  on  to 
describe  the  beautiful  young  empress,  pale  from  her 
last  accouchement,  the  prince  upon  her  arm,  in  tears 
begging  protection  of  her  people,  whose  enthusiasm 
breaks  forth  in  the  cry  :  "  Eex  nostra  Maria  Theresa ! " 
We  demand  of  Macaulay  neither  Protestant  nor 
Prussian  sympathies,  but  the  manner  in  which  he 
contrasts  the  lovely,  innocent,  forlorn  woman  with  the 
atheistic,  vain,  unattractive  man,  shows  that  he  has  not 
only  strong  sympathies  with  Austria,  but  also  with 
Maria  Theresa  personally  ;  and  here  we  all  agree  with 
him,  —  she  was  a  superior  woman,  the  pride  of  Ger- 
many !  But  Macaulay  goes  further  yet.  Frederick's 
personahty  is  repulsive  to  him,  and  this  once  recog- 
nized, his  narrative  loses  the  sacredness  which  his 
unbiased  convictions  would  have  retained  had  he 
simply  followed  his  enthusiasm.  The  prejudice  be- 
trayed deprives  his  work  at  once  of  more  than  half 
its   value.     So    accustomed    are    we    to    reading    the 


FKEDEEICK  THE   GREAT   AND   MACAULAY.  149 

Prussian  estimate  of  Frederick  the  Great,  that  it  cer- 
tainly would  be  useful  if  an  opinion  of  him  in  the 
broader  European  sense  could  find  its  way  to  the 
public  mind.  But  if  a  book  appears  which  makes 
this  pretension,  or  if  we  ascribe  such  to  it  and  the 
book  disappoints  us  in  this  respect,  we  must  refuse 
to  accept  it,  and  may  not  conceal  the  reasons  why. 

Supposing  Frederick's  claims  to  Silesia  had  been 
far  more  apparent  than  they  were,  and  supposing  he 
had  been  provoked  to  the  invasion  so  that  it  was  not 
imexpected,  still  had  he  done  the  same  thing  to-day 
he  would  have  been  blamed,  and  justly.  Count  Got- 
ter,  whom  he  sent  to  Vienna  with  war  or  peace  in 
his  pocket,  arrived  there  two  days  after  the  Prus- 
sians had  entered  Silesia.  Frederick  relates  this  him- 
self. To  the  Austrian  envoy  at  Berhn,  who  apprised 
his  court  of  the  preparations  going  on,  and  expressed 
a  suspicion  of  the  king's  designs,  Maria  Theresa  re- 
pHed,  "  We  will  not,  we  cannot  beheve  it."  Fred- 
erick's move  was  really,  therefore,  an  unwarranted 
assault. 

If  Sardinia  to-day,  in  the  faith  that  she  had  claims 
on  Lombardy,  without  first  demanding  in  Vienna  to 
have  them  peacefully  conceded,  should  invade  the 
empire,  this  would  be  an  outrage,  and,  as  Macaulay 
says,  not  only  "gross  perfidy  toward  Austria,  but 
toward  the  whole  community  of  civilized  nations." 
But  the  Silesian  war  was  carried  on  a  century  ago. 
Only  sixty  years  earlier  Louis  XIV  had  taken  posses- 


150    FREDERICK  THE  GREAT  AND  MACAULAY. 

sion  of  Strasburg  in  tlie  same  way.  This  was  gross 
treachery  toward  Germany,  but  did  not  disturb  the 
peace  of  Europe,  for  the  Trench  succeeded  ia  the 
stroke,  and  the  ignominy  falls  upon  Germany  of  hav- 
ing allowed  it.  Louis  was  at  that  time  the  more 
powerful,  and  he  knew  that  his  cou2J  would  not  break 
the  treaty  of  peace  just  ratified. 

Even  so  Frederick's  invasion  in  his  time  was  no 
outrage,  —  it  was  a  challenge!  He  attacked  the 
mightiest  power,  and  wanted  the  war.  The  King  of 
Prussia  was  then,  in  the  eyes  of  the  overbearing 
French  nobility,  only  the  Marquis  of  Brandenburg,  — 
a  poor  parvenue,  beneath  consideration.  Frederick's 
father  before  him  had  sought  occasion  for  war  in 
order  to  give  weight  to  the  Prussian  name.  The 
hobby  he  made  of  his  troops  was  the  most  useful  one 
he  could  have  ridden.  Frederick  now  had  an  army  at 
his  disposition.  He  was  young.  No  great  ruler  has 
ever  been  reproached  for  his  ambition,  neither  Alex-- 
ander,  nor  Csesar,  nor  Napoleon.  He  was  the  weaker. 
He  contended  against  terrible  odds,  and  had  to  take 
every  advantage.  Austria  must  not  have  a  day  for 
preparation.  Therefore  he  entered  the  country  at 
once  and  filled  it  with  his  troops.  His  manner  of 
prosecuting  war  had  still  a  smack  of  the  Middle  Ages 
in  it,  for  so  had  the  King  of  France  and  the  Emperor 
mutually  invaded  each  other's  territories  centuries 
earlier,  looking  out  only  for  their  own  advantage,  and 
finding  pleasure  in  war.     The  conception  of  truth  and 


FREDEKICK  THE   GREAT   AND  MACAULAY.  151 

honesty  which  obtained  in  private  intercourse  was 
never  carried  into  political  relations.  Nor  is  it  even 
to-day.  The  nations  still  fall  upon  one  another  like 
wild  animals,  and  the  weaker  is  swallowed  up.  So  it 
has  been  from  time  immemorial.  Frederick  felt  that 
neither  he  nor  his  country  enjoyed  the  consideration 
to  which  they  were  entitled  by  their  intrinsic  strength. 
He  took  the  bull  by  the  horns,  and  compelled  the 
nations  to  realize  what  he  was.  To-day  this  might  be 
considered  a  foolhardy  proceeding,  —  but  perfidious,  if 
he  could  carry  it  through,  never.  He  was  stirred  by 
the  power  within  him,  and  demanded  a  sphere  of 
action.  He  did  not,  like  a  wolf,  attack  an  innocent 
fold,  but  openly  challenged  a  war  with  the  most 
powerful  antagonist  in  Europe.  Frederick  was  son 
of  the  man  George  II  had  styled  the  "  pere  caporal," 
the  "roi  des  grands  chemins,"  "archisabher  de  I'Em- 
pire  Eomain,"  and  who  was  treated  with  the  utmost 
contempt  by  all  the  old  courts,  which  contempt  ex- 
tended to  his  officers  and  subjects.  Now  he,  upon 
assuming  the  reins  of  government,  demands  satisfac- 
tion. He  is  resolved  to  occupy  a  position  that  is 
something  more  than  merely  conceded  to  him  with 
lofty  condescension.  This  is  the  reason  why  he 
begins  the  war,  as  he  plainly  tells  us  in  his  His- 
toire  de  mon  Temps,  and  Macaulay  might  at  least 
have  cited  it  without  mitigating  the  severity  of  his 
sentence.  Never  was  "  ambition,  interest,  and  the 
desire  to  be  talked  about"  more  justifiable  than  in 


152  FEEDEEICK  THE  GEEAT  AND   MACArLAY. 

this  instance,  and  Frederick  was  the  man  to  fight  it 
through. 

Of  all  this,  however,  Macaulay  makes  no  mention. 
He  gives  a  picture  of  European  politics,  and  yet  of  the 
rank  of  the  different  nations  intellectually  says  noth- 
ing, what  is  merely  casual  or  accidental  forming  the 
whole.  If  we  may  not  agree  with  those  who  see  in 
every  battle  lost  or  won  an  indication  of  the  will  of 
Heaven,  the  view  is  forlorn  indeed  which  regards  uni- 
versal history  as  a  mere  web  of  accidents,  and  assumes 
the  highest  aim  of  a  nation  to  be  to  make  its  life  as  tol- 
erable as  possible.  There  is  an  ideal  growth  of  nations, 
and  Frederick  the  Great  has  infinitely  promoted  ours. 

Macaulay's  personal  dislike  of  the  king  is  even  more 
plainly  betrayed  by  the  way  in  which  he  speaks  of  his 
youthful  days  up  to  his  ascension  to  the  throne.  Life 
at  Eheinsberg  consists  in  dining  and  supping  well 
and  holding  romantic  literary  tournaments.  AVhen  the 
crown-prince  becomes  king  he  dismisses  his  associates, 
as  Henry  the  Fourth  Falstaff  and  company.  Macaulay 
might  have  told  even  worse  things  than  these:  how 
Frederick  laid  before  his  father  calculations  in  political 
economy  purporting  to  be  his  own,  but  really  drawn 
up  by  others;  how  he  secretly  borrowed  from  the 
Austrian  ambassador  a  sum  of  money  which  he 
needed,  and  was  almost  in  despair  when  the  king, 
who  had  been  mortally  ill,  showed  signs  of  recovery  ; 
but  neither  these  things  nor  those  quoted  by  Macau- 
lay   touch   the   main  springs  of   action,  from   which 


FEEDEEICK   THE   GREAT   AND   MACAULAY,  153 

alone  any  correct  judgment  of  the  crown-prince^  tcf^NlA. 
be  formed.  Although  he  allows  that  he  was  badly 
treated  by  his  father,  he  gives  it  a  comical-genre  aspect. 
Yet  here  lay  the  real  cause  of  all  the  inward  miseries 
Frederick  experienced.  He  was  born  with  an  iaflexi- 
ble  nature,  which  through  mistaken  treatment  was 
driven  to  desperation.  If  Eheinsberg  was  to  be 
mentioned  at  all  his  marriage  should  have  been  dis- 
cussed, against  which  he  struggled  in  vain  and  was 
forced  into  at  last ;  that  from  the  outset  he  was  sur- 
rounded with  spies  who  pretended  friendship  for  him, 
and  then  reported  everything  to  the  old  king  in  Ber- 
lin ;  how  shamefully  they  took  advantage  of  the  bad 
relations  existing  between  father  and  son,  and  would 
have  been  glad  to  make  the  breach  irreparable.  This 
was  the  mental  experience  of  those  years  ;  it  might 
and  really  ought  to  have  been  emphasized.  No  one 
who  looks  carefully  into  this  Eheinsberg  Hfe  will  ever 
derive  the  impression  that  eating  and  drinking  was 
the  main  thing. 

It  was  at  Eheinsberg  that  the  crown-prince  WTote 
his  essay  Considerations  sur  VEtat  present  du  Corps 
Diplomatique  de  V Europe  and  the  Anti-Machiavelli, — 
two  very  important  works  in  which  the  principles  of 
his  later  policy  are  clearly  set  forth.  In  the  first  he 
pictures  the  relations  of  the  European  powers  to  one 
another  at  that  time ;  its  pregnancy  is  in  the  proof 
that  all  Austria's  efforts  had  been  directed  to  making 
the  German  Imperial  dignity  —  which  was  dependent 


154  FEEDERICK   THE   GREAT   AND  MACAULAY. 

on  the  free  choice  of  the  princes — a  hereditary  preroga- 
tive of  the  house  of  Hapsburg.  The  Anti-Machiavelli, 
which  created  a  great  sensation,  contains  no  learned 
criticism  or  refutation  of  the  principles  of  the  Floren- 
tine diplomat,  who  never  intended  to  furnish  a  political 
standard  for  all  time,  but  simply  to  represent  his  own 
experience.  Frederick's  book  is  rather  to  be  considered 
as  the  first  opposition  made  by  a  German  prince  to 
the  system  of  government  which  prevailed  generally 
at  that  time.  According  to  Machiavelli,  the  sovereign, 
with  his  glory,  his  interests,  and  his  wealth,  is  the 
centre  around  which  revolves  the  fate  of  his  subjects. 
Frederick  says  that  the  welfare  of  the  people  must  form 
this  central  point.  Here  is  the  Germanic  doctrine  of 
the  relation  of  prince  to  people  born  anew  in  Prussia, 
and  in  Prussia  for  the  first  time  put  into  practice. 
The  thousand  villanous  wiles  and  intrigues  between 
sovereign  and  people  which  Machiavelli  enumerates  as 
known  and  in  frequent  use  in  his  day  (none  of  which 
are  his  invention,  —  he  has  simply  catalogued  them), 
and  which  had  been  in  common  practice  in  princely 
palaces  since  the  sixteenth  century,  roused  the  burning 
indignation  of  Frederick's  soul  at  their  immorality. 
He  attacked  Machiavelli  for  the  sake  of  having  a  tan- 
gible antagonist,  but  in  his  heart  meant  the  Eomanic 
system  of  government  all  around  him,  and  in  this  sense 
the  book  was  interpreted.  To-day  we  notice  only  the 
points  in  which  he  misunderstood  Machiavelli,  who 
was  neither  a  great  man  nor  a  great  politician,  and 


FEEDERICK   THE   GEE  AT   AND   MACAULAY.         155 

more  admired  by  later  generations  for  his  penetration 
than  esteemed  by  his  contemporaries.  Macaulay's  re- 
nowned essay  on  Machiavelli  contains  erroneous  views, 
arising  plainly  from  the  author's  want  of  acquaintance 
with  the  sources  of  Florentine  history. 

Macaulay  hurries  over  the  account  of  Frederick's 
Rheinsberg  friends.  Perhaps  we  could  not  expect  him 
to  do  otherwise  in  an  essay  necessarily  limited  to 
essentials,  and  yet  if  he  could  find  room  for  a  sentence 
of  ten  lines  in  which  to  speak  of  the  disappointment 
of  a  few,  who  thought  after  Frederick's  coronation  they 
had  reached  the  promised  land,  and  were  disagreeably 
startled  out  of  their  dreams  by  the  harsh  words,  "  Now 
there  is  an  end  to  these  tomfooleries ! "  there  might 
also  have  been  room  enough  to  mention  some  who 
had  a  different  experience.  Macaulay's  few,  however, 
belonged  too  appropriately  to  the  dinners  and  suppers 
of  Eheinsberg  to  admit  of  his  spoiling  the  unity  of  his 
picture  by  naming  these  men  later  as  sharing  Fred- 
erick's victories  and  his  renown.  Frederick,  whom  he 
describes  as  the  meanest  of  the  mean,  at  any  rate 
never  let  these  men  famish.  Kurd  von  Schlozer  has 
given  us  a  picture  of  this  Eheinsberg  circle  in  his 
Chasot.  That  those  who  thought  best  of  the  crown- 
prince  expected  a  Telemachus  after  Fenelon's  pattern 
is  a  curious  assertion  of  the  English  author. 

Frederick  assumed  the  government  at  twenty-eight 
years  of  age.  He  had  already  announced  his  political 
principles.     His  character  was  matured,  and  his  friends 


156  FEEDERICK   THE   GREAT   AND   MACAULAY. 

knew  him  too  well  to  expect  anything  of  the  kind 
"  Others,"  continues  Macaulay,  "  predicted  the  approach 
of  a  Medicean  age,  —  an  age  propitious  to  learning  and 
art,  and  not  unpropitious  to  pleasure."  If  any  imag- 
ined this  they  were  by  no  means  disappointed  at  first ; 
for  the  assertion  is  false,  that  as  soon  as  Frederick 
touched  the  crown  he  became  a  changed  man,  imbued 
with  the  spirit  of  an  unbounded  miserliness,  which 
broke  out  over  night  like  some  inherited  disease.  He 
is  accused  of  having  proved  faithless  to  everything 
he  had  said  or  loved  as  crown-prince.  In  truth,  his 
personal  experience,  especially  his  wars,  did  make  it 
somewhat  difficult  for  him  to  follow  in  the  footsteps  of 
the  Medici ;  but  so  long  as  he  lived  he  was  devoted  to 
the  arts  and  sciences,  and  spent  a  great  deal  of  money 
in  their  service.  His  tastes  did  not  rise  to  the  purely 
classic,  and  to  dabble  in  dilettante  fashion  in  poetry 
and  science,  especially  in  the  department  of  medicine 
(although  it  escaped  the  sharp  scrutiny  of  our  critic), 
was  a  weakness,  but  a  weakness  of  his  time.  In  his 
printed  correspondence  we  find  proof  that  he  was 
always  in  earnest  about  these  matters,  and  eager  to 
know  the  ablest  men  in  each  province.  Indeed,  in 
comparison  with  his  zeal  for  what  was  positively 
useful,  or  for  the  promotion  of  art  and  science, 
his  own  verse-making  was  a  mere  innocent  pastime, 
—  the  more  so,  that  he  never  filched  a  moment 
from  state  affairs  for  his  poetical  effusions,  nor  de- 
manded  the   flattery  of   the   public  by  having   them 


FREDEKICK  THE  GREAT  AND  MACAULAY.    157 

printed.^  To-day,  when  all  these  papers  have  been 
dragged  to  Hght  and  published,  we  are  apt  to  forget 
this.  What  the  king  did  send  into  the  world  in  his 
lifetime  were  things  of  weight  and  importance.  If 
really  ambitious,  as  Macaulay  says,  of  being  handed 
down  to  posterity  as  a  great  author,  he  at  any  rate  took 
pains  to  deserve  it.  His  writings  are  elaborate  works 
in  the  composition  of  which  he  had  his  nation  in  view 
that  he  hoped  to  benefit ;  and  if,  secondarily,  posterity 
shared  his  thought,  he  did  not  flatter  himself  with 
illusions.  Those  who  have  no  prejudice  against  his 
productions,  from  the  style  and  the  French,  cannot  fail 
to  admire  the  clear  arrangement  of  material,  the  sim- 
pHcity  of  narration,  and  the  unreserved  way  in  which 
he  speaks  of  his  own  faults. 

"  No  one,"  says  Macaulay  (I  come  back  to  the  ex- 
pectations cherished  of  the  king  on  his  ascension  to 
the  throne),  "  had  the  least  suspicion  that  a  tyrant  of 
extraordinary  military  and  political  talent,  of  industry 
more  extraordinary  still,  without  fear,  without  faith, 
and  without  mercy,  had  ascended  the  throne." 

This  contains  the  pith  of  his  criticism.  That  a  man 
like  Macaulay  is  always  fascinating,  that  his  account 
of  the  Seven  Years'  War,  and  of  the  Silesian  campaigns, 
attest  descriptive  power  of  the  very  highest  kind,  I 
need  not  tell  those  who  have  read  the  essay.  The 
author's  forte   lies  in  just   such   rapid   retrospects   of 

1  He  only  allowed  some  of  his  early  poems  to  be  printed  for  a 
small  circle  of  his  intimate  friends. 


158  FREDERICK   THE   GREAT   AND   MACAULAY. 

eventful  times.  Nothing  could  be  more  brilliant  than 
his  manner,  for  instance,  of  depicting  the  conquest  of 
India  by  Lord  Clive.  Our  steps  are  close  beside  the 
hero's,  and  we  experience  his  victories  with  him.  So, 
too,  with  Frederick.  We  see  the  wave  which  raises 
him,  and  the  succeeding  one  beneath  which  he  sinks ; 
and  how  again  with  renewed  strength  and  unclouded 
eye  he  raises  and  sustains  himself  above  the  stormy 
waters.  Macaulay's  manner  of  writing  gives  the  im- 
pression that  he  is  wholly  infallible.  All  the  more 
is  contradiction  demanded  when  this  extraordinary 
talent  is  used  to  exhibit  false  and  damaging  views,  as 
if  they  were  results  of  clear,  conscientious  observa- 
tions. 

Let  us  grant  for  a  moment  that  the  king  was  with- 
out fear  and  without  mercy.  To  demand  of  a  military 
leader  that  he  should  be  swayed  by  sympathy  and 
pity,  when  a  kingdom  and  his  honor  were  at  stake,  is 
to  demand  too  much.  But  never  has  Frederick  been 
called  cruel  or  inhuman.  He  had  no  Creates  or  Pan- 
dours  in  his  army.  He  was  harsh  toward  his  people, 
his  own  family,  and  most  of  all  toward  his  brothers. 
The  manner  in  which  he  treats  Prince  Henry,  an  emi- 
nent diplomat  and  general,  even  into  old  age,  is  often 
perfectly  insulting.  But  even  here  he  is  always  con- 
sistent and  intelligible,  never  acting  from  cruel,  arbi- 
trary impulse,  like  a  brute  tyrant ;  never  a  hint  gives 
the  impression  that  to  punish  gives  him  pleasure,  or 
that  he  takes  satisfaction  in  cutting  men  to  the  heart. 


FREDERICK   THE   GREAT   AND   MACAULAY.  159 

We,  on  the  contrary,  often  see  clearly  that  he  is  un- 
conscious how  hard  he  is.  From  his  earliest  years, 
trained  in  a  hard  school,  severity  and  suspicion  became 
infused  into  his  blood.  He  was  always  soKtary  ;  from 
youth  up  he  never  met  with  a  soul  he  dared  to  trust, — 
not  even  his  sister  whom  he  loved  so  dearly.  Perhaps 
he  never  uttered  the  inmost  feelings  of  his  heart;  and 
he  to  whom  this  is  denied  must  be  unhappy.  The 
time  has  not  yet  come  to  form  a  perfectly  unbiased 
judgment  of  Frederick.  He  is  too  near  our  own  day  ; 
many  of  his  written  utterances  are  still  unprinted ! 
But  whatever  may  be  said  in  the  future  about  him,  he 
will  never  be  reputed  a  tyrant  without  loyalty,  shame, 
or  mercy,  as  Macaulay  has  styled  him.  Neither  in 
pubhc  nor  private  relations  was  he  this !  Never  did 
he  bind  the  fate  of  a  people  to  his  own,  and  then 
coldly  sacrifice  it  to  circumstances.  Never  did  he 
appeal  to  the  love  of  plunder  in  his  troops  to  stimu- 
late their  bravery,  never  persecuted  the  conquered  to 
gratify  personal  revenge.  Necessity  forced  him  to 
drain  Saxony ;  but  his  own  country  fared  no  better. 
It  possessed  less  and  yielded  less.  He  destroyed 
Bruhl's  palace  in  Dresden ;  but  this  was  richly  de- 
served punishment  for  the  count's  intriguing  pohcy. 
Ludwig  Sforza  and  Caesar  Borgia  were  men  without 
shame,  truth,  or  mercy  ;  but  even  Wallenstein  is  not  so 
severely  condemned,  although  he  prosecuted  war  in  a 
most  inhuman  fashion,  and  ended  as  a  so-called  traitor ; 
or  Louis  Quatorze,  who  let  loose  a  herd  of  tigers  in  the 


160  FEEDERICK   THE    OPxEAT   AND   MACAULAY. 

Palatinate,  when  "  political  necessity  "  led  him  to  dev- 
astate this  innocent  land.  We  judge  them  with  more 
leniency,  because  in  other  directions  their  characters 
appear  too  grand  to  allow  us  to  pass  such  a  sweeping 
sentence  on  them  as  a  whole.  Faithless  and  merciless 
we  call  princes  whose  deeds  show  that  their  life-giving 
impulses  are  devoid  of  all  truth  and  mercy.  Whether 
it  be  justifiable  to  wage  war  when  it  can  be  avoided, 
or  to  open  a  war  not  positively  called  for  in  self- 
defence,  may  admit  of  discussion  in  the  abstract;  but 
this  much  is  certain,  that  nations  have  always  been 
proud  of  their  victorious  kings,  and  the  question  has 
never  been  raised  on  what  grovmd  they  made  war. 

When  Frederick  took  possession  of  Silesia,  Prussia 
had  between  two  and  three  millions  of  inhabitants, 
and  her  revenues  amounted  to  seven  and  a  half  mil- 
lions. The  army  consisted  of  somewhat  over  eighty- 
three  thousand  men.  The  country  had  no  debt,  and 
in  the  treasury  was  about  nine  millions  of  thalers. 
The  territories  belonging  to  the  crown  were,  however, 
for  the  most  part  widely  scattered,  and  even  the  com- 
pact centre  had  no  safe  boundaries.  Of  the  troops, 
twenty-six  thousand  were  foreign  hirelings.  Prussia 
possessed  neither  Saxony,  Silesia,  Pomerania,  Poland, 
nor  the  Pthine  lands.  But  Austria,  when  Frederick 
attacked  her,  possessed  Silesia,  the  provinces  of  the 
Netherlands,  and  an  altogether  different  influence  in 
the  empire  from  what  it  has  to-day.  The  electorate 
of   Cologne,  Mayence,  Treves,  and  Bavaria,  all  adding 


FREDERICK   THE   GREAT  AND   MACAULAY.  161 

their  considerable  quotas,  stood  at  Austria's  service. 
At  that  time  the  princes  trafficked  with  their  regi- 
ments as  oxen-dealers  with  their  herds.^ 

Had  Frederick  been  overwhelmed  by  this  superior 
force  which  he  had  challenged,  we  might  indeed  have 
accused  him  of  wanton  rashness.  But  he  won  his 
cause.  "  Prussia  was  "  —  these  are  his  words  —  "a  kind 
of  hermaphrodite,  and  more  electorate  than  kingdom. 
It  was  a  glorious  task  to  decide  finally  which  of  the 
two  it  should  be,  and  the  recognition  of  this  necessity 
it  was  which  nerved  the  king's  arm  for  the  terrible 
task  he  set  before  him."  Like  Ctesar,  Frederick  always 
speaks  of  himself  in  the  third  person. 

He  would  no  longer  suffer  the  tokens  of  contempt 
which  his  father  had  quietly  borne.  They  had  taught 
him  that  he  must  win  for  himself,  and  more  especially 
for  his  nation,  the  respect  due  to  both ;  that  moderation 
is  a  virtue  statesmen  must  not  carry  too  far,  inasmuch 
as  the  corruption  everywhere  does  not  allow  of  it ;  and 
lastly,  since  a  change  of  government  had  come  in,  that 
it  was  more  advisable  to  manifest  his  power  than 
meekly  to  submit.  At  the  close  of  her  wars  Prussia 
was  no  longer  a  contemptible  interloper  among  the 
royal  powers,  but  a  dreaded  peer,  whose  will  must  be 
consulted  before  a  single  shot  could  be  fired  in  Europe. 

How  was  it  possible  to  leave  this  view  of  things  so 

"  L'electeur  de  Cologne  entretenait  huit  a  douze  rallies  hommes, 
dont  11  trafiquait  comme  uu  bouvier  avec  ses  bestiaux."  —  Uistoire 
de  man  Temps,  I.  28. 


162  FREDEEICK   THE   GKEAT  AND  MACAULAY. 

wholly  out  of  sight  if  any  correct  judgment  of  Fred- 
erick's wars  was  to  be  gained?  And  yet  Macaulay 
ignores  it  completely.  He  lays  great  emphasis  on 
single  traits  in  the  king's  character,  but  nowhere 
.shows  the  focus  in  which  all  unite,  or  the  genesis 
which  explains  their  raison  d'itre.  He  says  the  pecu- 
liarities of  his  father  broke  out  again  in  him !  Possibly 
he  may  be  borne  out  in  this  statement ;  but  what  does 
it  signify,  when  speaking  of  such  a  grand,  unique  indi- 
viduahty,  to  fall  back  on  the  one-sided  theory  of  fatal- 
istic natural  inheritance,  when  the  circumstances  which 
really  formed  and  must  form  it  are  so  clearly  discern- 
ible ?  Macaulay  has  eyes  only  for  what  was  genre-Hke 
and  whimsical  in  the  man.  His  one  dirty,  shabby  old 
coat,  liis  snuff-box,  his  crutch-cane,  —  in  a  word,  what 
rendered  him  a  conspicuous  figure  in  the  street  and  a 
favorite  subject  in  wax-cabinet  exhibitions,  is  graphi- 
cally portrayed ;  about  the  man  himself  our  author  is 
silent.  I  beheve,  however,  this  is  not  owing  to  malice 
prepense,  as  it  might  appear;  for  with  Macaulay  the 
clothes  of  men  always  form  an  important  part  of  their 
soul.  He  is  a  brilliant  advocate  for  or  against  a  person, 
and  his  words  have  the  accent  of  a  special  pleader 
who  would  move  the  jury  on  the  instant  to  say  "  yes  " 
or  "no."  His  essay  on  Frederick  is  directed  against 
the  great  king.  No  falser  method  than  that  of  not 
doing  full  justice  to  him  upon  whom  the  judge  is  to 
pronounce  sentence,  and  thus  making  it  appear  as  if 
something  more  than  a  fair  judgment  was  demanded. 


FREDEEICK  THE  GREAT  AND  MACAULAY.    163 

I  think  if  Macaulay  had  started  with  the  intention  of 
being  perfectly  just  and  impartial  he  would  not  have 
reiterated  as  he  does  the  expression,  "to  do  justice  to 
the  king."  After  hearing  him  through  we  are  in  the 
frame  of  mind  to  let  justice  have  its  course,  and  declare 
the  accused  guilty.  Among  the  most  contemptible 
means  for  compelling  such  a  verdict  is  the  artifice  of 
mentioning  at  the  outset  one  of  the  most  damaging 
imputations  against  the  moral  life  of  the  king,  —  thus 
interpreting  all  his  actions  a  priori  as  those  of  a  repro- 
bate crowned  by  bhnd  fate  with  success.  It  cannot 
be  my  purpose  here  to  defend  Frederick.  I  am  only 
trying  to  throw  a  little  light  on  the  tactics  of  his 
accuser. 

He  handles  his  subject  skilfully  indeed,  and  has  the 
advantage  on  his  side  of  being  a  renowned  historian. 
Perhaps  among  us  this  gives  him  even  more  weight  than 
in  his  own  country.  In  truth,  this  is  the  reason  why 
the  essay  assumes  such  importance  in  our  eyes. 

The  question  whether  it  is  allowable  to  make  use  of 
history  for  political  aims  would  be  answered  differently 
in  England  than  with  us.  We  contemplate  the  past 
from  a  certain  philosophic  remoteness ;  we  become  par- 
tisans, but  belong  to  no  special  party  as  represented  at 
the  present  day.  The  main  point  is  to  set  forth  the 
truth,  not  to  make  proselytes.  We  leave  people  free 
to  make  their  own  choice.  But  in  England  it  has 
always  been  the  custom  to  utilize  the  storehouses  of 
history  for  political  purposes,  and  Macaulay  may  hava 


164  FEEDERICK   THE   GREAT   AND   MACAULAY. 

done  it  this  time  without  a  thought  of  harm,  even  if 
fully  conscious  of  his  intention. 

In  this  way  we  explain  the  frivolity  with  which  he 
handles  the  facts.  The  whole  tone  of  his  essay,  how- 
ever, is  less  strange  when  we  call  to  mind  a  wondrous 
peculiarity  of  our  epoch.  All  that  is  mythical  in 
times  gone  by  our  age  rejects.  No  one  beheves  any 
longer  in  heroes  whose  characters  were  unaffected  by 
the  little  prosaic  needs  of  human  life,  whose  thoughts 
were  a  perpetual  inspiration,  and  whose  feelings  were 
guided  by  immortal  passions.  Such  figures  are  ban- 
ished from  the  realm  of  histor}^  and  scarcely  tolerated 
in  that  of  poetry.  With  the  same  composure  with 
which  we  observ^e  the  various  eras  in  the  formation  of 
our  planet  we  dig  out  the  roots  of  the  oldest  nations 
from  the  legendary  soil  in  which  they  flourished,  shake 
off  the  mould  from  their  fine  fibres,  and  compare  the 
plants  with  those  which  are  to-day  blooming  and  bear- 
ing fruit.  Mommsen  comes  and  blows  aside  the  old 
gray  mists  resting  over  the  swamps  on  the  Tiber  banks, 
and  we  see  the  city  of  Eomulus  arise  as  naturally 
as  among  us  the  foundations  are  laid  and  the  walls 
raised  for  soldiers'  barracks.  The  same  labor  and  the 
same  material  was  expended  to  build  a  wall  thou- 
sands of  years  ago  as  now,  and  the  ancient  elephant 
hungered,  fed,  and  digested  according  to  the  same  laws 
as  the  elephant  of  to-day.  This  point  of  view  is  so 
consonant  to  modern  thought  that  it  has  become  the 
ruling  one  in  all  the  sciences. 


FREDERICK   THE   GREAT   AND   MACAULAY.  165 

To  politics  and  history  it  was  first  most  boldly 
applied  in  England.  A  parliament  sits  in  London, 
where  the  doings  of  kings  and  emperors  are  discussed 
as  formerly  in  the  Eoman  senate.  A  member  of  Par- 
liament deems  himself  one  of  the  arbitrators  of  peace 
and  war  for  the  whole  world,  and  the  other  gentlemen 
in  Europe  had  better  take  their  resolutions  accord- 
ingly. Hence,  also,  the  method  of  putting  themselves 
on  a  very  familiar  footing  with  historical  personages. 
Macaulay  handles  Frederick  the  Great  exactly  as  if  he 
were  his  equal,  and  his  school  imitates  Ms  example. 
Csesar  and  Pompey,  whose  faults  and  virtues  have  been 
hitherto  covered  with  a  veil  which  threw  over  them 
a  vague  poetic  Hght,  are  now  people  like  ourselves ; 
they  are  dragged  forth  into  the  full  light  of  day,  the 
dust  knocked  out  of  their  togas,  the  rusty  old  weapons 
cleaned  and  furbished  up  again,  while  they  are  told 
without  ceremony  to  their  faces,  "  Here  you  were  clever, 
and  there  you  made  fools  of  yourselves."  Frederick 
gets  as  sound  a  drubbing  as  if  the  thmgs  had  hap- 
pened yesterday,  and  a  newspaper  correspondent  had 
reported  them  to  a  London  paper. 

And  who  will  forbid  this  ?  Were  they  not  all  mor- 
tal men  hke  ourselves,  who  ate,  drank,  thought,  acted, 
and  repented  as  we  -do  ?  Calmly  we  ask,  and  appear  to 
forget  entirely  the  monstrous  distinction  that  we  live 
while  they  are  dead.  The  years  between  their  time 
and  ours  are  a  sea  wliich  no  ship  traverses.  The  life 
of  a  dead  man  may  not  be  subjected  to  the  same  meas- 


166  FREDERICK   THE    GREAT   AND   MACAULAY. 

ure  by  which  we  estimate  the  deeds  of  the  living. 
The  myth  is  no  artificial  rust  that  is  to  render  the 
appearance  of  things  more  interesting,  hut  the  genuine 
platina  which  we  cannot  destroy  without  destroying 
the  monument  itself,  whose  accessory  only  it  seems  to 
be.  Every  dead  man,  even  if  but  just  buried,  has 
become  already  a  mythical  person ;  and  every  year  in 
its  flight  adds  to  the  mysterious  halo  that  surrounds 
him.  Wliat  the  sculptor  does  at  the  moment  when  he 
chisels  the  bust  of  a  living  man  Time  slowly  and 
gradually  does  for  the  dead.  The  passage  of  years 
renders  more  and  more  general  the  features  it  trans- 
mits, and  the  less  individual.  They  grow  more  and 
more  beautiful  of  superior  men,  whilst  those  of  the 
insignificant  masses  soon  fade  into  nothingness.  We 
may  say,  in  truth,  that  a  great  man  absorbs  and  unites 
in  himself  the  best  features  of  a  generation  that,  in 
itself,  is  fast  vanishing  and  passing  into  obhvion.  We 
discover  through  a  telescope  that  a  star  is  a  small 
glittering  point,  and  that  the  rays  we  perceive  with 
our  naked  eye  are  only  illusory ;  but  there  is  no  such 
mstrument  for  the  men  whom  death  removes  beyond 
our  vision.  "De  mortuis  nil  nisi  bene,"  is  no  mere 
good-natured  adage  inspired  by  vague,  universal  sym- 
pathy. Every  man,  as  soon  as  he  is  dead,  is  seen 
through  a  tenderer  light,  and  his  discordant  being 
assumes  harmonious  shape. 

What  we  never  forgive  the  hving  we  forgive  the 
dead.     Their   faults    do   not   cease   to   be   faults,  but 


FKEDEEICK  THE  GREAT  AND  MACAULAY.     167 

the  hatred  is  silenced  that  once  followed  them.  They 
have  entered  a  higher  sphere,  which  it  would  be  inhu- 
man not  to  respect. 

Yet  how  natural  in  struggUng  with  a  pohtical  party 
to  call  the  past  to  our  aid,  and,  identifying  it  with  the 
present,  deal  out  to  our  historical  antagonist  the  blows 
intended  for  the  living !  It  is  a  political  right  arro- 
gated by  the  present  in  regard  to  the  past,  but  one 
which  will  never  be  acknowledged  in  Germany.  With 
us  science  can  never  be  used  as  means  to  further  party 
aims.  We  are  the  only  people  who  can  and  do  judge 
events  from  an  ideal  standpoint ;  we  have  been  made 
to  suffer  for  this,  but  can  never  give  it  up,  for  it  is  in 
harmony  with  our  nature,  and  our  one  stay  and  sup- 
port. We  should  be  as  weak  and  powerless  without 
this  inward  hght,  as  we  have  often  enough  been 
tempted  to  represent  ourselves.  In  Germany,  histori- 
ography will  never  be  permitted  to  take  a  one-sided 
political  standpoint,  but  must  so  conceive  and  describe 
the  deeds  of  nations  as  they  most  clearly  reveal  the 
god-Hke  power  of  humanity. 

In  many  cases  even  Macaulay  cannot  do  otherwise. 
In  his  essay  on  Byron  he  enumerates  a  great  number 
of  single  traits,  exhibits  him  in  every  conceivable 
position,  and  remains  throughout  so  cool  and  unbiased 
that  his  calm  observation  is  nowhere  resolved  into 
partiality ;  but  he  winds  up  by  saying,  "  To  us  he  is 
now  only  the  poet,  young,  noble,  unhappy."  Thus  he 
writes  directly  after  Byron's  death,  claiming  for  him, 


168  FREDERICK   THE   GREAT  AND   MACAULAY. 

even  then,  the  purifying,  absolving  power  of  history, 
which  he  seems  to  have  wholly  forgotten  in  the  case 
of  our  great  king.     We  have  not  forgotten  it. 

We  will  not  upbraid  him,  however,  for  what  he  has 
chosen  to  say  about  Frederick ;  had  he  been  a  German 
he  would  have  written  very  differently.  I  believe  his 
opinion  stands  alone,  even  in  England,  and  there,  too, 
encounters  just  contradiction.  If  he  had  been  a  Ger- 
man, he  must  have  been  accused  of  perfidy,  ignorance, 
and  want  of  patriotism.  Macaulay,  in  this  essay,  has 
given  expression  to  a  rashly-formed  opinion  of  a  for- 
eign prince,  but  we  should  deserve  severe  censure  if 
we  took  from  such  a  source  our  knowledge  of  the  man 
who  has  contributed  so  powerfully  to  the  greatness  of 
Germany. 


ALBERT  DURBR. 

When  speaking  of  distinguished  poets  or  artists,  of 
Shakespeare,  Goethe,  Schiller,  Eaphael,  or  Eubens,  their 
principal  works  —  the  works  from  which  they  derive 
their  fame  —  rise  involuntarily  before  our  view.  We 
say  Goethe,  and  think  of  Iphigenia,  Werther,  Faust ; 
or  Eaphael,  and  mean  the  Stanze  of  the  Vatican  and 
the  Sistine  Madonna.  And  so,  likewise,  of  great  gen- 
erals and  renowned  scholars,  their  names  are  syno- 
nyms for  glorious  battles,  or  books  which  in  themselves 
were  eras. 

The  artist  of  whom  we  are  now  to  speak  does  not 
seem  to  have  reared  any  such  lofty  pedestal  to  his 
fame.  Albert  Diirer !  he  is  universally  known  as  an 
eminent  painter,  as  foremost  in  rank;  but  where  are 
his  masterpieces  ?  Where  is  the  one  great  work  with 
which  he  came  forward  to  kindle  the  enthusiasm  of 
the  world,  as  Goethe  with  Werther,  Corneille  with  the 
Cid,  Michael  Angelo  with  the  Pietd  ?  Wliat  was  the 
crowning  point  of  his  activity,  of  his  Hfe  ? 

He  lived  in  Nuremberg.  His  house  there  has  been 
carefully  restored,  and  is  now  visited  as  a  pilgrim 
shrine.  Diirer  himself  stands  before  us  a  magnifi- 
cent man,  tall,  with  clear  eyes,  and  dark  blonde  curls 
fallmg  over  his  shoulders;  but  tliis  is  almost  all  we 

169 


170  ALBEET  DURER. 

know  of  him.  We  indeed  remember  here  and  there 
having  had  occasionally  some  bit  pointed  out  to  us  as 
being  Diirer's  work  ;  but  no  one  ever  stood  lost  in  rap- 
ture before  a  picture  of  Diirer's,  as  so  many  have  done 
before  Eaphael's  Madonnas.  Diirer's  productions  float 
before  us  a  maze  of  small  things,  —  engravings,  wood- 
cuts, drawings,  pretty  paintings  in  miniature  on  parch- 
ment, carvings  in  wood  and  ivory  ;  more  like  treasures 
and  relics  than  pictures,  which  by  their  power  or 
beauty  assert  a  right  to  a  distinguished  position.  And 
yet  no  one  questions  Diirer's  having  been  a  great 
artist.  Are  his  works,  then,  lost  or  destroyed,  or  have 
they  been  carried  away  into  distant  lands  ?  On  what 
does  his  reputation  rest  ?  Where  are  the  proofs  of  his 
greatness  ? 

And  here,  at  once,  this  may  be  said,  —  Diirer's  fame, 
exalting  him  so  high,  and  comprehending  the  whole 
man,  is  of  recent  date;  Diirer's  name  was  always 
honored,  but  the  tone  in  which  it  is  uttered  to-day  is 
struck  for  the  first  time.  In  treating  of  him  person- 
ally, therefore,  we  must  include  some  discussion  of 
the  characteristics  of  our  age,  which  has  first  brought 
him  forward  in  this  radiant  light. 

Our  age  is  one  of  scientific  research.  Every  man 
who  has  been  able  in  any  respect  to  lift  himself  out 
of  the  callous  state  of  brute  ignorance  strives  to  share 
in  the  labors  of  the  great  fraternity  devoted  to  the 
scientific  investigation  of  all  that  exists.  A  potent 
charm  emanates  from  such  labors,  and  not  from  their 


ALBERT   DURER.  171 

material  value,  enormous  as  tliis  has  been,  but  from 
the  fact  that  they  have  tended  to  establish  the  laws 
governing  the  universe.  Whoever  pursues  scientific 
studies  at  the  present  day,  with  a  view  to  mercantile 
advantage,  and  is  successful  in  obtaining  results,  is 
respected;  but  the  absolutely  noble  are  the  laborers 
in  the  cause  of  truth  itself.  No  more  genuine  aris- 
tocracy exists  to-day  than  the  aristocracy  of  learning, 
Two  facts  have  grown  out  of  this  bias  of  the  present 
generation  toward  science,  of  radical  effect, — the  gigan- 
tic increase  in  numbers  of  men  dedicating  their  lives 
to  scientific  research  and  following  upon  new  views  a 
speedy  deduction  of  the  extremest  consequences.  A 
freedom  devoid  of  limitations  or  prejudice  has  appeared 
which  we  regard  with  some  perplexity.  The  elder 
among  us  (using  this  word  in  its  mildest  sense)  were 
brought  up  in  the  faith  that  the  original  progenitors  af 
mankind  had  enjoyed  immediate  intercourse  with  the 
Deity ;  but  now,  when  the  transmitted  records  of  Scrip- 
ture are  no  longer  the  sole  authority,  when  everything 
that  can  give  answer  is  questioned  (and  every  tiniest 
stone  and  drop  of  water  gives  answer  to-day),  w^e  are 
led  to  think  that  our  connection  is  with  the  monkeys. 
A  vast  multitude  of  people,  —  and  more  perhaps  than 
we  imagine,  —  calmly  acquiesce,  with  all  seriousness,  in 
the  notion  that  we  derive  our  origin  from  these  animals, 
and  this,  too,  merely  because  science  has  to  a  certain 
extent  plausibly  demonstrated  the  connection  between 
man  and    monkey.     In   place    of    ancestors,  mighty, 


172  ALBERT  DURER. 

heroic  ideals,  tlieir  descendants  must   strive  after   in 
vain,  we  have  now  the  wretched  savage  dwellers  in  the 
lake  cities  whose  veritable  bones  we  anatomize.     No 
one  ventures  to  doubt  these  palpable  records  of  the 
oldest  history  or  to  resist  the  conclusions  derived  from 
them.      Nor  is  it  better  in  the  province  of   religion. 
What  could  exceed  in  purity  the  primal  aspect  of  Chris- 
tianity and  its  evidences  ?    But  this  beginning  is  treated 
of  to-day  as  if  it  were  a  question  concerning  some- 
thing which  lately  happened  and  ought  to  be  discussed 
without  passion.     Everything  may  now  come  under 
controversy  if  it  only  assumes  the  form  of  scientific 
inquiry.     Strangely  enough,  too,  this  does  not  increase 
our  presumption,  but  tends  to  humihate  us.     We  take 
a  lower  place.     Our  earth,  with  its  vicissitudes,  is  only  a 
brief  incident  in  the  creation  of  the  universe.     We  no 
longer  flatter  ourselves  the  world  was  made  for  man. 
And  still  further  the  human  race,  with  its  entire  his- 
tory, constitutes  but  a  limited  episode  even  in  the  expe- 
rience m  our  own  planet ;  the  nations  are  but  portions 
of  mankind  which  we  observe  and  study  like  individ- 
uals.   We  weigh  carefully  their  tendencies,  capacities, 
and  achievements,  coolly  decide  on  their  value  or  signifi- 
cance, and  construct  their  history  by  representing  these 
qualities  as  the  movmg  principle.     With  all  attainable 
means  we  endeavor  to  trace  the  earlier  as  well  as  later 
condition  of  the  different  nations.     When  in  former 
days  the  theme  was  history,  it  was  a  narration  of  bat- 
tles and  the  fate  of   dynasties  ;  but  now  an  infinite 


ALBERT   DiJRER.  173 

complication  of  causes  and  motives,  acting  one  upon 
another,  must  be  considered.  It  is  a  chase  after  new 
points  of  view.  Once  it  was  much  to  have  found  a 
practicable  way  through  the  woods,  but  now  every 
leaf  on  the  trees  by  the  wayside  must  be  counted; 
every  stone  must  be  turned  over  to  see  if  anything 
lies  concealed  beneath  it ;  every  change  in  the  weather 
is  observed  and  registered.  Countless  years  since  an 
arrow-point,  wrought  by  the  hand  of  man,  remained 
sticking  in  the  body  of  an  animal  slain  in  the  chase. 
Strata  upon  strata,  sand  and  soil  have  heaped  them- 
selves above  it.  To-day  we  dig  into  this,  find  the  arrow- 
head, measure  the  depth,  and  decide  from  the  work 
and  the  strata  of  earth  the  nature  of  a  departed  race 
that  lived  thousands  of  years  ago.  Splinters  of  bone, 
according  to  their  different  forms,  become  hieroglyph- 
ics reporting  an  intelligible  story.  A  dozen  words, 
carved  a  thousand  years  since,  perhaps,  and  not  under- 
stood at  that  time,  now  show  the  nature  of  a  language, 
or  contain  pregnant  disclosures  regarding  the  seat  or 
spread  of  a  people.  We  look  about  us  on  all  sides  with 
such  unlimited  freedom,  that  nothing  any  longer  seems 
beyond  our  grasp. 

It  is  exactly  here,  however,  while  carrying  these 
investigations  back  to  times  whose  remoteness  we 
formerly  dared  not  measure,  that  in  connection  with 
the  positive  results  a  negative  side  appears.  The  ear- 
lier historians,  to  be  sure,  worked  with  scant  material 
enough, —  seldom  knew   the   facts   exactly,  and  were 


174  ALBEET  DiJRER. 

forced  to  shape  their  pictures  out  of  the  nebulse.  Yet, 
on  the  other  hand,  our  passions,  which,  after  all,  are  the 
exciting  elements  in  all  human  intercourse,  were  dis- 
played in  those  early  days  in  their  unalloyed  integrity, 
and  history,  which  to  us  to-day  seems  the  result  of 
compelling  laws  actmg  one  upon  another  from  multi- 
farious directions,  was  somewhat  more  free  and  com- 
prehensible. No  fact  is  willingly  believed  at  the 
present  time,  if  proof  cannot  be  furnished  that  it 
occurred  just  as  stated.  We  wish  to  feel  that  we 
understand  an  event  so  clearly  that  no  point  in  it 
remains  absolutely  dark.  The  most  brilhant  elucida- 
tion of  the  growth  and  achievements  of  nations  is 
found  in  Buckle's  History  of  Civilization,  which  in  its 
comprehensive  introduction  grasps  the  principles  under- 
lying the  destinies  of  these  various  peoples  and  nations. 
So  long  as  Buckle  limits  himself  to  a  comparison  of 
the  quahties  of  our  planet  with  those  of  the  people 
inhabiting  the  various  parts  of  it,  he  finds  startling 
and  magnificent  poiats  of  view.  When,  however,  he 
enters  the  sphere  in  which  for  the  interpretation  of 
conflicts  of  sj)iritual  origin  not  only  a  perception  of 
the  principal  influences  controlling  the  masses  is  de- 
manded, but  also  a  recognition  of  the  individuality 
manifest  in  single  leaders,  he  is  powerless.  He  appre- 
hends and  explains  only  what  relates  to  the  passive  in 
man,  and  his  treatment  fails  altogether  when  extended 
to  the  active  and  creative.  For  here  it  does  not  suffice 
to  consider  man  simply  as  an  object  of  natural  his- 
tory. 


ALBERT   DiJRER.  173 

It  is  very  striking  that,  whilst  in  knowledge  of  t-fe<^ 
external  conditions  of  life  we  have  enlarged  our  hori- 
zon so  vastly,  we  have  rather  fallen  back  as  concerns 
the  inner  life  both  in  keenness  of  insight  and  in  the 
expression  and  delineation  of  it.  At  any  rate,  there 
has  been  no  progress  to  speak  of.  The  remotest 
accounts  of  spiritual  things  go  back  two  or  three 
thousand  years ;  men  would  seem  to  have  remained 
ever  the  same.  Love,  hatred,  ambition,  and  the  kin- 
dred passions,  were  felt  by  the  old  Greeks  exactly  as 
we  feel  them  to-day,  but  were  better  observed  than  by 
us ;  they  were  greater  orators,  writers,  poets,  sculptors, 
architects,  —  yes,  greater  thinkers  than  we.  The  mys- 
teries of  human  nature  have  not  been  solved  through 
increase  of  knowledge.  Many  things  in  history  are 
cleared  up,  owing  to  the  immense  enlargement  of  our 
resources  ;  but  the  one  problem  remains,  after  all,  un- 
solvable  as  of  yore,  —  the  secret  of  the  vital  growth 
of  nations.  To  be  sure,  we  are  perfectly  aware  of  this 
at  the  present  day.  We  feel  that  the  people  have 
spiritual  epochs,  and  that,  even  while  realizing  them 
to  be  of  the  utmost  importance,  they  elude  our  grasp, 
notwithstanding  a  great  amount  of  external  and  posi- 
tive fact.  Our  own  experience  convinces  us  that  a  few 
men  stimulate  and  direct  the  animus  of  their  day,  and 
are  at  once  its  type  and  most  faithful  reflection.  We 
believe  these  men  will  give  to  coming  generations  their 
conception  of  it,  and  seek  for  such  men  in  past  cen- 
turies as  have  rendered  this  service  to  their  times.     It 


176  ALBERT   DURER. 

has  been,  and  must  remain,  one  of  the  chief  tasks  of 
a  historian  to  find  these  men,  and  to  study  them  in 
the  true  light.  In  order,  therefore,  to  understand  an 
era,  we  must  first  see  the  men  who  lived  in  it.  This 
brings  us  back  to  Diirer. 

Diirer's  fame  is  of  recent  date,  because  it  is  only  in 
our  times  that  he  has  been  recognized  as  the  standard 
of  the  intellectual  progress  of  his  age.  And  so  high 
has  this  ennobling  distinction  raised  him,  that  he  now 
ranks  as  a  great  painter  without  havmg  actually  fur- 
nished visible  proofs  of  it. 

In  certain  periods  the  men  whom  I  designate  as  rep- 
resentative are  at  once  evident.  All  are  perfectly 
aware  that  Voltaire  was  the  reflection  of  the  intellect- 
ual movement  in  France  in  the  middle  of  the  last  cen- 
tury; Rousseau,  of  the  times  preceding  the  French 
Revolution,  whilst  the  beginning  of  the  Revolution 
itself  finds  expression  in  Mirabeau.  What  Goethe, 
Plato,  Pericles,  and  Phidias  include  and  signify  is 
familiar  to  every  one.  But  take  Italian  history  as 
mirrored  in  Dante,  and,  were  we  obliged  to  conceive 
the  spiritual  hfe  of  Italy  through  him  alone,  at  the 
turning-point  between  the  thirteenth  and  fourteenth 
centuries,  the  gloom  and  bitterness  of  his  nature  would 
prevent  us  from  gaining  a  complete  view  of  his  times. 
We  look  about  for  a  man  who  reflects  the  bright  side 
of  life  in  his  day;  the  painter  Giotto  stands  beside 
Dante,  and  affords  the  counterpart.  But  few  indeed  of 
his  works  are  preserved  to-day ;  as  with  Diirer,  scarcely 


ALBERT   DUKER.  177 

anything  which  in  itself  proclaims  the  great  painter. 
But  his  place  by  the  side  of  Dante  confers  upon  him 
higher  rank,  and  brings  him  forward  as  the  indispensa- 
ble man  of  historical  significance. 

Let  us  proceed  with  Italy.  In  the  transition  period 
from  the  fifteenth  to  the  sixteenth  century  a  man  is 
wanting  who  includes,  and  at  the  same  time  represents, 
as  much  as  Dante  in  former  centuries.  Michael  An- 
gelo  was  far  too  one-sided,  and  Machiavelli  no  less  so ; 
we  ask  for  the  man  who  reflects  the  brilliant  side  of 
life,  —  Eaphael  appears!  These  three  men,  however, 
embrace  nearly  the  whole.  I  do  not  know  of  one  who 
typifies  the  warlike  element  of  the  times.  Certainly, 
neither  Csesar  Borgia,  nor  Julius  II,  nor  Bourbon,  nor 
the  Colonnas,  nor  any  other  of  the  renowned  soldiers. 
Too  much  of  the  perishable  makes  a  part  of  their 
natures,  and  what  is  really  living  in  them  seems 
a  reflection  of  Machiavelh,  without  whom  the  times 
would  be  incomprehensible.  Machiavelli,  Michael  An- 
gelo,  Eaphael,  include  all  the  rest.  Even  Savonarola 
would  grow  indistinct  without  them  as  a  background. 

But  now  we  will  pass  to  Germany  at  the  same 
period.  A  crowd  of  characters  here  seem  to  present 
themselves;  yet,  drawing  nearer  to  scrutinize  them, 
three  only  stand  out  as  representative  men,  —  living 
realities  to  their  own  and  following  ages,  —  Luther, 
Hutten,  and  Albert  Diirer.  They  explain  everything. 
Luther,  the  power,  the  will,  and  the  self-consciousness ; 
Hutten,  the  unrest,  the  pertinacity,  and  also  the  con- 


178  ALBERT  DiJRER. 

fusion ;  Durer,  the  joy  in  productive  labor,  the  integ- 
rity, and  contentment,  of  the  German  people  as  they 
appeared  to  the  world  in  that  day. 

Casting  a  glance  back,  there  in  Italy  is  Giotto  beside 
Dante,  then  Eaphael  and  Michael  Angelo,  and  finally 
in  Germany  Diirer.  To  fathom  the  works  of  these 
men,  and  from  them  to  gain  acquaintance  with  the 
times  which  called  them  forth  and  constitute  a  part 
of  them,  is  the  science  of  art  at  the  present  day,  long 
since  well  understood  and  apphed  to  classic  art  whose 
merits  have  been  proportionally  realized.  This  study 
has  not  yet  extended  to  the  works  of  modern  art,  nor 
their  wealth  been  fully  recognized. 

Albert  Diirer  stands  before  me  in  the  perfect  har- 
mony of  all  the  finest  human  attributes.  Wlien  we 
think  of  Michael  Angelo  we  are  attracted  to  a  lonely 
man,  whose  life,  as  a  whole,  forms  a  picture  of  almost 
pamful  isolation.  If  we  should  compare  Diirer  and 
Eaphael  to  countries  which  limited,  and  limiting  fill 
out  their  boundaries,  and  yet  appear  only  as  parts  of  a 
whole,  sharing  with  others  chains  of  mountains,  rivers, 
and  highways,  we  must  compare  Michael  Angelo  to 
an  entire  continent  surrounded  by  water.  Defective 
m  many  respects,  but  unique  in  all,  —  having  its  own 
inhabitants,  its  own  vegetation,  with  vast  solitudes 
and  stretches  of  desert,  and  its  own  sky.  All  outward 
interests  seemed  of  trifling  importance  to  Michael 
Angelo,  as  it  were  superfluous.  He  bore  no  relation 
to  his  feUow-men  which  influenced  his  life.     He  was 


ALBERT   DUKEE.  179 

what  lie  was  from  the  beginnmg ;  no  one  guided  him 
in  the  course  he  took,  nor  could  he  instruct  any  one 
how  to  follow  in  his  footsteps. 

On  the  whole,  he  appears  poor  and  sunless.  His 
favorite  simile  of  himself  in  his  poems  is  of  one  "  born 
in  the  dark  and  wandering  in  the  night."  He  could 
only  envy  others  what  had  been  denied  to  him. 
Where  such  a  man  comes  forward  with  his  colossal 
productions,  and  nevertheless  is  misunderstood  and 
falsely  judged,  one  finds  every  incentive  to  make  the 
greatest  effort  to  rend  the  dark  veil  behind  which  he 
seems  waiting  for  the  Hght.  All  that  can  be  done  for 
him,  however,  is  much  like  entering  a  sombre  hall  in 
which  a  mighty  statue  stands,  and,  lighting  a  little  can- 
dle at  the  foot  of  it,  we  see  the  outline  grow  some- 
what clearer.  Many  things  come  out  faintly  illumi- 
nated, but  on  the  whole  only  great  masses  separate 
the  figure  from  the  surrounding  darkness.  Who  ap- 
proaches sees  just  enough  to  surmise  that  here  stands 
the  image  of  a  powerful  man,  but  never  perhaps  will 
it  be  brought  forward  into  the  clear  light  of  day. 

Turn  now,  on  the  other  hand,  to  Eaphael  and  Albert 
Diirer !  It  is  like  stepping  out  of  this  stillness,  dark- 
ness, and  loneliness  into  the  midst  of  a  cheerful  mar- 
ket-place, where  the  window-panes  glisten  on  every 
side,  fountains  gush  forth,  and  people  mingle  in  the 
whirl  of  business.  Nothing  strange  or  replete  with 
mystery  comes  here  to  meet  us.  We  are  only  con- 
fused because  unable  at  a  glance  to  take  in  the  whole ; 


180  ALBERT   DiJKER. 

one  thing  after  another  must  be  surv^eyed  in  turn. 
The  crowd  of  genial,  living  faces,  like  the  air  of 
spring,  seems  infinite  and  exhaustless.  How  many 
dark,  attractive  eyes  glance  at  us  in  all  directions  as 
we  skim  over  in  memory  Raphael's  works !  How 
vividly  the  cheerful  stir  of  German  city  life,  both 
public  and  private,  comes  before  us  when  we  think  of 
Diirer's  !  We  see  Michael  Angelo  once  in  youth  and 
again  in  old  age  flying  to  Venice ;  the  first  time  driven 
away  by  a  frightful  dream,  the  second  with  thoughts 
of  the  ruin  of  his  country  in  his  soul.  Raphael,  on 
the  contrary,  travels  serenely  through  Umbria  and 
Toscana,  and  radiant  with  hope  enters  Eome.  Diirer 
rides  gayly  over  the  Alps  to  Venice,  or,  light  of  heart, 
with  wife  and  maid,  roves  about  in  the  Netherlands. 
To  sit  next  to  Michael  Angelo  at  table  would  be  like 
supping  with  heroes,  where  one  weighs  every  word 
that  he  hears,  and  more  conscientiously  still  that  he 
utters.  By  the  side  of  Diirer  and  Eaphael  one  could 
have  talked  and  enjoyed  the  wine.  They  are  genial 
beings  whom  we  joyfully  rush  forward  to  greet,  just 
for  a  pressure  of  the  hand,  whilst  with  Michael  An- 
gelo we  are  contented  to  watch  him  at  a  distance,  as 
we  look  at  some  grand  statue  drawn  triumphantly 
through  the  streets  of  a  city. 

Diirer  and  Eaphael  are  Italy  and  Germany  side  by 
side  in  the  same  epoch.  No  description  makes  the 
contrast  between  the  two  countries  so  clear  as  the  sight 
of  these  men  and  their  productions.     Here,  as   there, 


ALBERT  DURER.  181 

a  blossom  shooting  up  suddenly,  like  the  aloe,  into 
supreme  beauty  to  astonish  and  gladden  the  eyes  of 
men.  In  Italy  the  son  of  a  poor  painter  is  trans- 
planted from  a  narrow  provincial  town  to  Eome,  where, 
in  the  space  of  fifteen  years,  he  mounts  all  the  steps 
leading  to  wealth  and  renown :  he  dies  young,  having 
had  the  prospect  before  him  of  becoming  cardinal,  and 
leavmg  palaces,  money,  and  the  pope  in  tears.  All  the 
influential  men  and  nobles  boasted  of  their  acquaint- 
ance with  him,  or  of  the  possession  of  his  works,  —  if 
they  had  been  so  fortunate  as  to  obtain  them.  Eome 
seemed  empty  after  Eaphael's  death.  And  this  side 
of  the  Alps,  on  the  other  hand,  we  find  Diirer,  son  of 
a  citizen  of  Nuremberg,  a  town  in  the  heart  of  Ger- 
many, never  touched  by  that  concentrated  flame  of 
glory  in  the  midst  of  which  Eaphael  stood,  but  irradi- 
ated with  a  soft  light,  which  penetrated  to  the  north 
and  to  the  south  as  far  as  Eome,  so  that  Eaphael  caught 
its  beams,  sent  gifts  and  exchanged  with  him  words 
of  friendship.  He  worked  persistently,  without  ever 
receiving  any  large  commissions,  even  from  the  com- 
munity he  helped  to  raise  to  distinction  with  himself. 
Let  us  contemplate  this  artist  and  the  various  spe- 
cimens of  his  work.  What  a  bright,  happy,  self-sus- 
tained being  he  was  from  his  earhest  youth,  even  when, 
as  an  apprentice  to  Wohlgemuth,  he  had  much  to  suffer 
from  "the  boys,"  up  to  his  death,  attributed  by  his 
friends  to  the  excessive  labor  urged  upon  him  by  the 
parsimony  of  his  wife.     We  do  not,  however,  believe 


182  ALBERT  DiJEER. 

that  Diirer  ever  allowed  himself  to  be  henpecked ;  for 
a  merr}^,  yes,  roguish  spirit,  breaks  forth  in  all  his 
works.  In  reading  his  Venetian  letters  we  cannot  but 
think  that  a  nature  armed  with  such  humor  must  have 
been  more  than  a  match  for  the  bad  temper  of  a 
woman.  His  diary  in  the  Netherlands,  in  which  he 
notes  down  all  his  expenses,  seems  to  prove  this.  He 
often  eats  and  drinks  with  boon  companions,  leavmg 
wife  and  maid  to  take  care  of  themselves ;  his  losses 
at  play  are  not  infrequently  quoted,  while  he  buys 
collections  of  curiosities  and  whatever  comes  under 
his  hand.  Diirer  must  have  had  somewhat  of  the 
gentilezza  which  distinguished  Eaphael.  Nothing  put 
him  out,  and  when  he  died  (as  with  Eaphael)  his 
friends  missed  the  man  more  than  the  artist.  Pirk- 
heimer,  in  elegiac  verses  on  his  death,  lays  great  stress 
on  Diirer's  general  superiority,  on  his  many-sidedness, 
as  if  art  had  been  only  one  of  the  many  gifts  and 
graces  which  adorned  him.  Luther,  exclaiming  at  the 
horrors  committed  by  the  Anabaptists,  writes,  "God 
seems  to  have  taken  Diirer  away  to  save  him  the  pain 
of  living  to  witness  them."  Diirer,  dying,  left  a  great 
void  behind.  Of  how  few  this  can  be  said  those  know 
best  who  have  experienced  with  surprise  how  often 
after  the  death  of  the  most  distinguished  man  scarcely 
a  token  remains  to  indicate  the  loss. 

What  the  word  of  a  representative  man,  however,  is 
worth  to  his  times  we  discover  from  one  of  Luther's 
utterances.     Much  had  been  collected  in  those  days  in 


ALBEET   DUKER.  183 

praise  of  Nuremberg,  —  a  mass  of  very  creditable  mate- 
rial ;  but  it  was  only  relative,  and  did  not  give  the  city 
any  special  rank.  But  now  we  have  Luther's  words : 
"  Nuremberg  is  the  eyes  and  ears  of  Germany,"  auris 
ct  oculus  Germaniae,  and  these  conferred  on  Nurem- 
berg that  patent  of  nobihty  which  all  previous  tributes 
had  failed  to  insure  it.  And  with  his  city's  Diirer's 
position  in  Germany  was  also  improved ;  and  perhaps 
this  explains  in  part  his  love  for  his  native  town,  which 
did  httle  enough  for  him  externally. 

Nuremberg  must  have  had  something  of  the  keen, 
critical  tone  which  made  Florence  in  its  palmy  days  so 
feared,  and  at  the  same  time  so  productive.  Here,  as 
at  Florence,  too,  the  burghers'  love  for  their  city  was 
proved  by  their  constant  desire  to  adorn  and  embellish 
it.  They  were  nowhere  so  happy  as  at  home.  How 
carefully  we  find  the  streets  and  houses  depicted  in  the 
works  of  their  native  artists  !  Diirer's,  especially ;  and 
his  own  house  was  his  favorite.  We  see  in  his  pre- 
cious, perhaps  most  precious,  work  that  he  has  put  St. 
Jerome  and  the  Lion  into  his  own  little  low-studded 
room,  which,  with  a  few  additions,  he  has  fitted  up  for 
the  old  gentleman's  study.  With  what  supreme  satis- 
faction he  proceeds  to  copy  this  room,  so  dear  to  him, 
even  to  the  knots  in  the  boards,  and  the  rifts  in  its 
timbers  !  How  warm  and  genially  the  sun  streams  in 
sidewise  through  the  tiny  panes  of  the  broad,  many- 
paned  window  upon  the  floor,  touching  lightly  as  it 
passes  the  strong,  massive  table.     How  the  lion,  blink- 


184  ALBEET   DUEEK. 

ing  and  drunk  with  sleep,  stretches  himself  out,  while 
a  small  terrier  crouches  at  his  side,  both  as  if  belong- 
ing  naturally  to  the  room.  We  seem  to  hear  the  buz- 
zing of  the  fl-ies  and  the  gentle  rustle  of  the  leaves 
turned  over  by  the  bearded  saint.  How  tidily  is  everj'- 
thing  put  in  its  place,  —  all  freshly  scoured,  —  wearing 
a  Sunday  air !  Methinks,  whoever  had  this  etching  in 
his  room  would  find  it  a  fast-nailed  bit  of  sunshine, 
dispensing  its  beneficent  rays  even  in  the  gloomiest 
hours. 

And  this  composition  is  but  one  verse,  as  it  were,  in 
a  long  poem.  Imagine  all  Diirer's  engravings,  draw- 
ings, etc.,  laid  side  by  side ;  what  a  diary  of  his  rich 
Hfe !  His  portraits  are  a  compendium  of  German 
characters  of  all  sorts,  from  the  emperor,  whom  he  pic- 
tures in  the  little  room  of  the  castle  at  Augsburg,  to 
the  beggar  and  peasant  in  the  street.  Easy-going, 
block-headed  monks,  illustrious  warriors,  burghers, 
lansquenets,  pedlers,  and  vagabonds ;  and  with  these, 
cities,  villages,  tracts  of  country.  A  humor  for  the 
fantastic  finds  expression  in  many  of  his  compositions, 
and  the  behef  in  witches  that  held  such  sway  over  the 
minds  of  men  in  his  day.  The  inability  to  conceive  of 
the  past  otherwise  than  in  the  garb  of  the  present,  or 
history  except  as  a  romantic  blending  of  truth  and 
fiction,  stand  forth  in  his  works  clearly  as  leading 
characteristics  of  the  times.  We  see  how  little  there 
was  to  prevent  the  people  from  perceiving  an  immedi- 
ate  connection   between   the  antique  Roman   empire 


ALBERT   DURER.  185 

and  their  own.  "We  see  what  pleasure  they  took  in 
the  present ;  how  firmly  they  beheved  that  things  had 
been  so  from  all  eternity,  and  so  to  all  eternity  must 
remain.  Every  house  was  built  as  indestructibly  as 
possible,  that  it  should  last  as  long  as  church  and 
empire,  —  powers  of  eternal  origin,  destined  to  be  eter- 
nal !  And  how  comfortable  they  seem  to  feel  them- 
selves in  this  world  !  ^Yh^^t  a  respect  they  have  for  it ! 
How  absolutely  they  submit  to  the  powers  that  be,  on 
earth  and  in  heaven !  Diirer's  soul  apparently  finds 
intense  satisfaction  in  the  production  of  these  fresh 
works  of  art,  arising  from  the  feeling  that  they  also 
will  share  to  some  degree  in  this  immortality.  With 
what  care  he  prepares  his  colors  !  All  the  materials  he 
uses  must  be  as  durable  as  possible.  And  this  earnest 
striving  to  render  earthly  things  imperishable  extends, 
in  a  kind  of  practical  sense,  to  their  conceptions  of 
a  future  hfe.  Men  of  that  day  exerted  their  noblest 
talents  in  order  to  leave  behind  a  worthy  memory,  and 
secure  a  reception  in  heaven ;  and  the  step  over  the 
boundary  was  never  out  of  their  minds,  devoid,  how- 
ever, of  all  sentimentality.  For  the  faith  of  that  age 
pictured  the  life  beyond  as  a  festive  state,  to  be 
attained  with  certainty,  and  bearing  a  Hkeness  to  our 
own  in  social  forms  and  ordinances,  —  where  each  found 
his  place  prepared  for  him.  The  children  had  their 
toys,  and  their  parents  renewed  the  bonds  of  friendship 
with  many  who  had  left  the  world  before  them.  Here, 
too,  was  no  cause  for  anxiety,  if  only  upright  conduct 


186  ALBERT  DTJEER. 

had  smoothed  the  way.  Diirer  moves  about  in  life  as 
ill  a  garden,  where  one  is  secluded,  but  not  imprisoned ; 
he  goes  slowly,  and  his  eyes  rove  far  and  wide ;  what 
he  sees,  he  sees  as  pictures,  and  his  hand  is  untiring  in 
transferring  them  to  paper. 

And  how  naturally  and  modestly  he  fulfils  this, — 
his  mission !  With  every  line  he  draws  taking  us 
deeper  into  the  heart  of  his  subject.  Never  has  a 
plastic  artist  of  equal  genius  looked  at  the  world  so 
ingenuously,  and  in  a  certain  sense  reproduced  it  with 
such  truth. 

This  last  assertion  may  possibly  challenge  contra- 
diction. For,  in  point  of  fact,  if  the  master  is  to  be 
mentioned  who,  in  those  days,  represented  nature 
with  absolute  fidehty,  only  one  name  can  be  uttered, 
—  Holbein's.  Younger  than  Diirer,  but  his  contem- 
porary, the  climax  of  his  development  was  in  Basle, 
where  he  painted  a  few  magnificent  compositions,  on 
very  large  walls,  but  for  the  most  part  portraits  and 
easel-pictures.  He  afterward  went  to  England,  where 
he  died.  Holbein  is  the  man  who  in  portraiture  has 
exceeded  every  one  in  the  reproduction  of  nature. 
But  one  defect  is  inherent  in  all  his  works :  his  por- 
traits have  a  certain  emptiness  of  expression,  which 
with  longer  acquaintance  inspires  a  mournful  feeling. 
I  have  not  seen  all  his  works,  but  such  as  I  have  seen 
tend  to  confirm  this  observation.  We  seem  to  realize 
the  fruitless  struggle  to  lend  a  soul  to  these  perfect 
reflections  of  nature.     I  have  lately  become  acquainted 


ALBERT  DURER.  187 

with  a  portrait  by  his  hand  which  was  new  to  me.  A 
work  brought  freshly  before  us  in  this  way  is  studied 
in  the  most  unbiased  frame  of  mind.  An  unrivalled 
piece  of  work  !  Color  and  drawing  unite  to  make  it 
something  perfect;  the  problem  of  how  to  bring  out 
tlie  face  of  a  man  from  a  flat  surface  in  color,  without 
letting  the  smallest  particle  of  its  hfe  escape,  is  solved. 
Indeed,  neither  Raphael  nor  Leonardo  were  able  to 
achieve  what  has  here  been  done.  But  all  these  ex- 
cellences fail  to  compensate  for  the  want  of  a  joyous 
soul  in  the  work;  and  for  this  reason  Holbein  can 
never  be  to  his  generation  what  Diirer  is.  Holbein's 
works  betray  no  palpable  individuality.  We  feel  no 
master  behind  them,  to  whom  we  would  draw  near  to 
ask  the  solution  of  the  secret  involved  in  the  picture. 
Holbein  draws  faultlessly ;  his  conceptions  are  grand 
and  full  of  taste,  but  beyond  this  he  has  no  influence 
over  our  minds.  Holbein's  sketches  are  the  studies  of 
a  painter;  Diirer's  roughest  drafts,  those  of  a  poet. 
DUrer's  figures  become  only  more  living  the  oftener 
we  study  them.  Who  does  not  know  his  portrait  of 
Maid  Fiirlegerin,  daughter  of  a  Nuremberg  patrician, 
whom  he  twice  painted.  Not  beautiful,  save  the  mag- 
nificent hair  !  He  has  intentionally  arranged  the  light 
to  fall  in  such  a  singular  way  upon  the  features  that 
a  multitude  of  faint  shades  come  out,  modelhng  the 
head  with  astonishing  vividness.  The  hair  is  painted 
as  if  he  had  laid  in  each  particular  hair  by  itself,  and 
the   fingers   of    the  hand  are  indescribably  soft  and 


188  ALBEKT   DUEEK. 

delicately  rounded.  Critics  may  object  that  the  por- 
trait is  too  brown  in  its  shades,  and  altogether  more 
like  a  caprice  than  a  work  of  art ;  but  even  so,  what  a 
lovely  caprice '.  Suggested  by  the  fondest,  most  in- 
genuous conception  of  nature. 

This  feeling  for  nature  is,  however,  most  strikingly 
conspicuous  in  Diirer's  portraits  of  himself.  I  believe 
no  master  has  so  often  and  so  carefully  painted  the 
portrait  of  his  own  person,  and  with  such  conscien- 
tiousness made  the  most  trifling  details  as  impor- 
tant as  the  essential  features.  Here,  also,  the  hair 
is  painted  with  the  minutest  fidelity,  and  his  predi- 
lection for  modelling  hands,  which  chiefly  distinguishes 
him,  is  apparent.  Moreover,  he  especially  delights  to 
picture  himself  in  rich  and  gorgeous  attire,  in  fur- 
bordered  mantle  and  cap  of  finest  needlework,  in 
French  and  Spanish  cloaks,  betraying  a  taste  for  fine 
clothes  and  a  consciousness  of  his  stately,  aristocratic 
figure.     In  Venice  he  actually  took  lessons  in  dancing. 

A  portrait  of  himself  opens  the  series  of  his  works, 
so  far  as  they  are  preserved.  "  I  painted  this  likeness 
of  my  own  face  when  I  was  nine  years  old,"  is  written 
on  the  picture  which  is  in  Vienna.  Drawn  as  a  child 
draws,  but  already  showing  the  attempt  to  bring  the 
head  out  in  relief  by  vigorous  shading  (which  Leonardo 
made  the  test  for  the  capacity  of  young  people  for  art). 
The  long  hair  is  here  as  smooth  as  a  thatched  roof, 
so  that  possibly  the  curls  of  later  years  were  not 
nature's  unassisted  work.     Such  vanity  was  quite  con- 


ALBERT   DURER.  189 

sonant  to  the  times  when  everything  was  overlaid 
with  ornament,  and  the  fancy  for  decoration  extended 
to  one's  o^YJl  person. 

When  Diirer  drew  this  he  was  still  at  school.  He 
had  ten  brothers  and  sisters  at  that  time,  and  they 
finally  numbered  eighteen,  —  his  mother  having  been 
married  young.  After  the  death  of  his  father  his 
mother  came  to  live  with  him. 

"Now  you  must  know,"  we  read  in  Diirer's  journal, 
"that  in  the  year  of  1513,  on  the  Tuesday  before  Pas- 
sion week,  my  poor  afflicted  mother,  whom  after  my 
father's  death  I  had  taken  to  live  with  me,  because  she 
was  very  poor,  and  who  had  been  under  my  care  nine 
years,  was  seized  so  deathly  ill  early  in  the  morning, 
that  we  broke  open  the  door  of  her  chamber,  since  we 
could  not  get  to  her  otherwise ;  we  carried  her  down 
to  a  lower  room,  where  both  sacraments  were  adminis- 
tered, —  for  every  one  thought  she  would  die ;  for  she 
had  preserved  her  health  after  my  father's  death,  and 
her  custom  was  to  go  much  to  the  church,  and  she 
had  always  punished  me  faithfully  when  I  did  not  do 
right,  and  had  the  greatest  anxiety  concerning  me  and 
my  brother;  and  when  I  went  out  (or  came  in)  her 
words  were  always,  '  Go,  in  the  name  of  Christ ! '  and 
she  urged  upon  us  constantly  with  all  diligence  holy 
admonitions,  and  felt  always  the  greatest  care  for  our 
souls  and  I  cannot  find  words  to  tell  all  her  good 
deeds,  or  her  Christian  charity,  or  worthily  to  praise 
her.     This  my  pious  mother  had  borne  eighteen  chil- 


190  ALBERT   DUEER. 

clren,  had  frequently  had  the  pestilence,  and  many 
other  severe  and  noticeable  diseases ;  had  suffered  from 
great  poverty,  scorn,  derision,  insulting  words,  frights, 
and  great  reverses.  Yet  was  she  never  revengeful. 
From  that  day,  namely,  the  one  above  mentioned  as 
the  one  upon  which  she  was  taken  ill,  a  year  hence  in 
the  year  of  our  Lord  1514,  on  a  Tuesday,  it  being  the 
seventeenth  day  of  May,  two  hours  before  midnight, 
did  my  pious  mother  Barbara  Diirer  depart  this  life, 
absolved  from  pain  and  guilt  by  all  the  Christian  sac- 
raments in  the  power  of  the  pope.  She  had  before 
also  given  me  her  blessing,  and  wished  me  godlike 
peace,  together  with  much  good  admonition,  that  I 
should  keep  myself  from  sin.  She  also  desired  to  drink 
St.  John's  blessing,  which  she  then  did ;  for  she  much 
feared  to  die,  but  said  that  she  did  not  fear  to  appear 
before  God.  And,  indeed,  her  death  was  hard,  and  I 
observed  that  she  saw  something  cruel,  for  she  asked 
for  the  holy  water,  and  yet  had  not  spoken  for  some 
time.  I  also  saw  soon  that  death  gave  her  two  great 
blows  on  the  heart,  and  how  she  closed  her  eyes  and 
mouth,  and  departed  with  pain.  I  prayed  aloud  for 
her,  but  was  in  such  grief  as  I  can  hardly  describe. 
God  be  merciful  to  her !  Her  best  joy  was  to  speak  of 
God,  and  she  loved  to  see  him  in  his  glory.  She  was 
sixty-three  years  old  when  she  died,  and  I  have  given 
her  honest  burial  according  to  my  property.  God  the 
Lord  grant  me  also  a  blessed  end,  and  may  God,  with 
his  heavenly  host,  my  father,  mother,  and  friends,  come 


ALBEKT   DURER.  191 

to  me  at  last.  Almighty  God,  give  us  eternal  life. 
Amen.  And  in  death  she  looked  muclt  lovelier  than 
she  had  done  in  life." 

I  have  given  Diirer's  language  in  this  quotation, 
with  only  insignificant  changes,  to  make  it  a  little 
more  familiar  to  our  ears  to-day.  Every  one  will  see 
in  it  with  what  love  he  hung  upon  his  mother.  His 
striking  portrait  of  her  is  to  be  found  to-day  in  the 
Berlin  collection  just  published  of  Diirer's  Sketches. 

Let  us  now  turn  to  his  father,  whom  he  twice 
painted:  a  shrewd-looking  old  man  with  a  little  skull- 
cap in  his  hand ;  and  the  portrait  of  Wohlgemuth, 
in  which  with  all  imaginary  care  he  has  reproduced 
the  aged,  withered  features.  We  need  not  repeat  the 
words  in  which  Diirer,  before  the  death  of  his  mother, 
describes  that  of  his  father,  for  if  anything  can  tes- 
tify to  his  love  and  fidelity  it  is  these  portraits. 

It  is  no  easy  thing  to  paint  men  as  they  actually 
are.  In  surveying  the  entire  realm  of  modern  art, 
only  about  a  hundred  portraits  of  the  first  rank  are 
found.  Nothing  is  more  instructive  than  a  compari- 
son of  these  works.  Nowhere  is  the  artist's  own 
depth  of  nature  shown  more  conclusively.  It  is  the 
gauge  of  his  genius,  and  this  all  the  more  veritably 
because  portraits  by  the  distinguished  masters  are, 
generally  speaking,  rather  secondary  things,  over  which 
they  unbend  to  a  certain  degree.  Professional  por- 
trait-painters are  not  here  in  question,  as  their  works 
confurm,  more  or  less,  to  fashion,  and  do  not  aim  at 
any  special  depth  of  meaning. 


192  ALBERT  DURER. 

We  were  just  speaking  of  Holbein.  The  want  of 
love  for  his  work,  which  is  so  striking  when  con- 
trasted with  its  technical  perfection,  is  not  peculiar  to 
him  alone.  Eminent  productions  in  this  department 
by  Vandyck  suffer  from  the  same  dissonance;  so,  too, 
many  of  Rembrandt's  and  Euben's !  It  is  likewise 
evident  in  Sebastian  del  Piombo  and  Andrea  del 
Sarto,  who  in  all  other  respects  are  to  be  counted 
among  the  first.  On  the  other  hand,  Raphael,  Rubens 
now  and  then,  and  Titian,  make  their  portraits  look 
at  us  with  eyes  that  melt  into  our  very  hearts.  And 
so  also  Diirer's!  Like  Shakespeare's  creations,  these 
portraits  represent  types,  though  in  reality  they  give 
us  only  individuals.  Diirer's  Maid  Furkgerin  is  a 
type  of  modest  burgher  maidenhood  in  the  sixteenth 
century ;  his  Holzscliuher,  that  of  an  honest  and  hon- 
orable German  burgher.  This  portrait,  which  until 
lately  has  remained  in  possession  of  the  family,  gives 
us  as  clear  an  idea  of  the  strong  and  solid  basis  on 
which  German  city  organization  rested  as  could  be 
gleaned  from  the  written  archives.  They  are  historical 
portraits,  which  exhibit  common  daily  life  in  Ger- 
many, as  Raphael's  pictures  Roman  life  in  his  day, 
and  Titian's,  which  glow  with  the  dechning  rays  of 
Venetian  splendor,  whilst  Rubens,  Vandyck,  Murillo, 
and  Velasquez  give  us  pictures  of  the  men  through 
whose  aid,  in  the  sixteenth  and  seventeenth  centuries, 
the  Hapsburg  dynasty  became  all-powerful  in  Spain 
and  the  Netherlands.     Rembrandt,  on  the  other  hand, 


ALBERT  DURER.  193 

is  the  historian  of  the  free  Netherlands.  But  if,  turn- 
ing to  France,  we  study  all  the  works  of  art  pro- 
duced in  the  Napoleonic  era,  we  do  not  find  one  of 
those  French  painters  able  to  furnish  a  real  historical 
portrait. 

And  those  earlier  men  were  poets  in  the  conception 
of  their  likenesses.  Diirer's  powerful  Kaiser  Karl 
whose  face  he  invented  as  fitting  the  imperial  robes 
above  which  it  thrones,  —  does  it  not  contain  all  that 
history,  poetry,  and  tradition  have  combined  to  stamp 
on  our  imagiaation  as  united  in  the  character  of  this 
great  emperor  ?  Is  it  not  a  type  of  the  mighty  leg- 
endary hero?  —  a  kind  of  demigod,  fountain-head  of 
all  German  history,  power,  and  glory  ?  A  St.  Goth- 
ard  from  whose  rocky  clefts  the  Ehine  breaks  forth ; 
then  the  main  artery  of  Germany,  as  it  promises  again 
to  become  to-day. 

"S^Tien  we  examine  Diirer's  portraits,  or  in  fact  his 
pictures,  as  works  of  art  purely,  it  would  be  infatua- 
tion not  to  grant  defects  in  them.  His  faithfulness 
often  runs  into  pettiness.  He  paints  the  wiadow- 
frames  as  mirrored  in  the  sitter's  eye.  If  Eubens  with 
a  few  bold  strokes,  or  Titian  in  a  riot  of  color,  pro- 
duced a  magnificent  semblance  to  nature,  which, 
when  brought  into  comparison  with  it,  really  shows 
no  points  of  correspondence,  Diirer,  at  the  opposite 
extreme,  painted  nature  microscopically.  It  is  not 
the  pedantic  minuteness  of  Denner,  whose  portraits, 
intended  for  effect,  are  feats  of  dexterity  in  reproduc- 


194  ALBEKT  DUREE. 

ing  tlie  mere  surface  of  the  countenance ;  but,  in 
Diirer,  an  excessive  conscientiousness  that  overdoes  it. 
Compared  with  other  great  masters,  he  lacks  the  com- 
mand of  technical  aid,  and  his  figures,  therefore,  have 
not  perfect  flexibility ;  they  seem  to  be  holding  still, 
sometimes  to  the  verge  of  nervousness.  The  reason 
for  this  may  have  been  that  he  was  conscious  of  not 
always  at  the  first  stroke  creating  what  he  wished.  It 
is  acknowledged  that  his  portrait  of  Erasmus  of  Eot- 
terdam  is  far  inferior  to  that  painted  by  Holbein.  On 
the  other  hand,  this  fresh,  free,  vigorous  handling  pro- 
duced many  things  which  few  other  painters  were 
capable  of  beside  him.  The  pen-and-ink  drawing  of 
Felix  Lautenschlager  in  the  Netherlands,  which  Diirer 
"  threw  off,"  comes  to  mind ;  an  admirable  study  of  the 
nude,  done  with  the  pen  on  green  paper  and  laid  in 
in  white.  If  inclined  to  find  fault  with  Diirer  for 
having  put  in  the  color  at  times  with  the  point  of  a 
pen,  we  may  now  reverse  the  criticism,  for  the  delicate 
strokes  of  the  pen  are  here  put  in  as  if  with  a  brush. 

The  observation  frequently  made  that  Dlirer's  works 
are  more  writings  than  paintings,  may  be  a  second 
reason  why  his  pictures  sometimes  lack  "  technical  fin- 
ish," as  the  term  is  generally  used  at  the  present  day. 
They  hardly  seem  to  have  been  conceived  to  the  final 
point,  and  there  is  no  indication  of  an  aim  at  pictur- 
esqueness.  What  I  mean  to  say  is,  that  he  does 
simply  what  he  intended  from  the  outset,  and,  this 
accompHshed,  lays  his  brush  aside.     Moreover,  it  may 


> 


ALBEKT   DURER.  195 

be  remarked  that  perfection  in  technique  can  only  be 
the  fruit  of  long  years  of  routine,  and  this  kind  of 
practice  Diirer  never  had,  because  the  commissions 
failed.  That  this  failure  was  owing  to  circumstances, 
and  not  to  any  lack  of  capacity,  is  fully  proved  by 
some  of  his  works, — for  instance,  parts  of  the  picture 
of  the  Strahower  Madonna,  and  above  all  the  Apostles 
in  Munich;  in  the  former  we  find  groups  arranged 
with  taste  and  historic  in  the  best  sense ;  in  the  latter, 
single  figures,  colossal  conceptions  wrought  out  with 
the  power  of  Eaphael  or  Michael  Angelo.  These 
Apostles  show  Diirer's  genius  to  have  been  equal  to 
the  mightiest  achievements.  But  no  one  demanded 
these  great  works  of  him.  Here  we  may  say,  in  a  tone 
of  regret,  that  we  had  at  that  time  no  emperor,  no 
nobles,  and  no  commoners,  who  had  any  appreciation 
of  such  things.  As  far  as  Diirer's  fame  is  concerned, 
however,  the  proofs  he  has  given  suffice.  Indeed,  the 
feehng  he  inspires  of  what  he  might  have  done  tempts 
us  to  see  more  almost  than  his  actual  works  exhibit. 
The  possible  often  stimulates  the  imagination  more 
than  the  actual  Thus  Goethe,  who  enjoyed  gi^-ing 
his  works  every  variety  of  poetical  form,  has  really 
created  in  each  form  only  one  work ;  but  that  so  per- 
fect in  itself  that  it  seems  to  stand  for  a  number  of 
productions  of  the  same  kind. 

Diirer  felt  himself  freest  when  etching  or  draw- 
ing for  wood-cuts.  In  the  year  1509  he  was  to  paint 
for  Jacob  Heller  in  Frankfort  Tlie  Ascension  of  Mary 


196  ALBERT  DURER. 

(afterward  destroyed  by  fire).  "  No  one  shall  ever  per- 
suade me  again  to  undertake  a  picture  with  so  much 
work  in  it,"  he  writes  to  the  person  who  ordered  it. 
"  I  should  beggar  myself.  Of  ordinary  pictures  I  can 
finish  such  a  pile  in  a  year  that  nobody  would  believe 
one  man  could  do  so  much ;  but  here,  with  diligent 
painting,  point  for  point,  one  does  not  make  any  prog- 
ress ;  therefore,  I  will  stick  to  engraving ;  and  if  I  had 
done  so  hitherto  I  should  be  richer  by  a  thousand 
guldens."  But  Diirer  certainly  did  not  work  any  less 
faithfully  on  his  engravings.  Wliat  he  did  in  this 
line  was  popular,  and  estabhshed  his  reputation.  Here 
he  is  free  and  full  of  life  to  the  very  marrow.  His 
compositions  stand  quite  by  themselves,  if  I  may  so 
express  it,  and  do  not  remind  us  of  the  small  scale  on 
which  they  are  executed.  They  have  an  intrinsic  mag- 
nitude quite  their  own.  Had  they  been  made  life-size 
they  would  not  have  been  greater  than  they  are,  as 
Eaphael's  Tapestries  or  Michael  Angelo's  Sistina  really 
are  no  smaller  in  the  smallest  engraving  than  on  the 
enormous  surface  the  originals  occupy. 

In  these  works  Diirer's  imagination  shows  marvel- 
ous creative  power.  Wliilst  nowadays  attempts  are 
made  to  vivify  New  Testament  events  by  introducing 
attractive  foreign  scenery  with  such  artistic  ingenuity 
and  correctness  that  we  are  conjured  into  beheving 
the  lightly  sketched  figures  in  these  landscapes  to  be 
equally  real  and  unquestionable,  Diirer,  on  the  con- 
trary, draws   his   figures   sharply  in   the   foreground, 


ALBEKT  DUKER.  197 

concentrates  all  the  life  in  them,  employing  for  effect_^ 
German  architecture,  dress,  and  household  furniture. 
His  representations  from  the  life  of  Mary  are  a  series 
of  charming  idyls  woven  out  of  what  he  gleaned  from 
the  country  people  about  him,  or  among  whom  he  had 
grown  up.  Though  he  had  never  had  a  child,  and  his 
wife  had  Httle  that  was  ideal  in  her  nature,  there  is 
yet  in  these  delineations  a  nursery  poetry  which  is 
enchanting.  No  legend,  no  poem,  of  whatever  kind, 
could  depict  so  happily  a  young  wife  in  the  midst  of 
the  simple  domestic  surroundings  of  that  age,  as  Diirer 
has  done  in  these  pictures  of  Mary.  He  introduces  the 
angels  hke  the  ministering  fairies  in  German  legends, 
and  they  seem  wholly  in  place ;  while  in  the  acces- 
sories, where  his  fantasy  achieves  the  most  extraordi- 
nary combinations  of  German  architecture  and  Italian 
Eenaissance,  we  see  how  naively  the  most  foreign  of 
all  foreign  structures  blend  with  the  existing  style; 
and  there  is  something  symbolic  in  this ;  it  was  the 
habit  of  that  day  in  all  things.  Hans  Sachs,  who  cer- 
tainly is  not  to  be  placed  beside  Diirer,  is  yet  to  be 
likened  to  him  in  this  one  respect ;  if  it  had  come  to 
the  point,  he  would  with  perfect  coolness  have  intro- 
duced Homer,  Pindar,  Sophocles,  and  others  into  Ger- 
man doggerel  for  the  benefit  of  the  Nuremberg  public. 
In  Diirer's  works  so  much  of  the  German  hfe  of  his 
day  is  truthfully  portrayed  that  they  transport  us  into 
its  very  midst.  He  has  no  preferences,  but  exhibits 
just  what  offers,  without  a  thought  of  displaying  his 


198  ALBERT  DUEEE. 

special  skill  in  one  direction  or  another.  His  faces  of 
Mary  are  every-day  physiognomies,  and  we  could  pick 
out  a  numljer  of  them  which  are  in  no  wise  beautiful. 
It  would  have  seemed  an  impossibihty,  in  his  eyes,  to 
give  an  artificial  elevation  to  his  conception,  or,  for  the 
sake  of  effect,  to  pitch  the  tone  one  degree  higher  or 
lower  than  was  natural.  He  sketches  whatever  pre- 
sents itself  with  a  certain  composure  (a  peculiarity  also 
of  Goethe),  and  paints  it  to  the  best  of  his  abihty  with- 
out much  ado.  There  are  artists  who  cannot  make 
a  stroke  without  a  dash  of  pretension  in  it;  while 
Diirer's  works  seem  as  if  he  had  done  them  incident- 
ally, and  found  amusement  in  doing  them.  Indeed, 
this  seems  a  distinctive  feature  of  all  the  purely  artis- 
tic German  work.  Goethe's  best  things,  and  the  poems 
of  Walther  von  der  Vogelweide,  of  which  I  am  always 
reminded  when  I  see  Diirer's  works,  inspire  the  same 
feeUng.  All  three  seem  to  have  wandered  through  life 
without  any  fixed  aim,  slowly  or  in  ecstatic  motion  as 
the  spirit  compelled.  Almost  unconsciously  they  pluck 
here  and  there  a  flower  by  the  wayside,  and  in  the 
evening  lay  the  nosegay  beside  them  on  the  table ;  not 
until  the  criticism  of  the  world  tells  them  so  do  they 
suspect  that  their  eyes  alone  could  have  found  these 
flowers. 

Hence  a  reason  why  Dlirer  left  no  main  work !  He 
never  seems  to  have  entered  into  competition  with 
others,  nor  to  have  envied  any  one.  "WTien  in  Antwerp 
the  artists  attended  him  to  his  house  with  torches,  he 


ALBEET  DUKEE.  199 

was  flattered,  but  neither  Venetian  ducats  nor  Neth- 
erlandish guldens,  though  temptingly  offered,  could 
prevent  him  from  returning  to  his  old  friends  in 
Nuremberg.  Diirer's  outward  life  had  few  incidents, — 
scarcely  any  that  were  at  the  same  time  epochs  in  his 
artistic  development.  I  have  earlier  attempted  to  prove 
tliat  his  Venetian  journey  in  the  year  1506  produced  a 
change  in  his  views,  and  I  still  abide  by  these  convic- 
tions. But  in  surveying  his  whole  career  from  begin- 
ning to  end,  we  feel  that  the  man  remams  the  same, 
and  can  only  explain  himself  (as  Goethe  once  said  of 
him).  Born  in  1471,  in  1506  he  goes  to  Venice  for  a 
year,  in  1520  to  the  Netherlands  for  the  same  space  of 
time,  and  dies  in  1528.  He  was  fearfully  emaciated, 
and  Pirkheimer  asserts  had  been  hardly  allowed  by  his 
wife  to  leave  the  house.  At  any  rate,  he  was  confined 
to  his  workroom  by  an  ever-increasing  sphere  of  labor ; 
for  towards  the  last  he  applied  himself  to  writing  on 
architectural  and  anatomical  subjects,  besides  holding 
a  position  in  the  city,  in  some  respects  like  that  of 
Michael  Angelo's  in  Florence;  he  had  become  a  sort 
of  indispensable  authority  in  Nuremberg,  and  without 
referring  to  him  few  important  matters  were  under- 
taken. But  with  regard  to  all  this  we  have  no  pre- 
cise information.  At  any  rate,  he  was  valued  as  a  man 
of  sagacity  and  tried  disinterestedness ;  and  when  the 
world  is  once  convinced  that  such  men  are  not  seeking 
their  own  advantage,  they  are  sufficiently  in  demand. 
So  much  respectful  consideration  was  manifested  to- 


200  ALBERT  DURER. 

ward  him  by  the  council,  that  Diirer,  to  show  his  grati- 
tude, felt  it  appropriate  to  make  the  city  a  present 
of  a  picture.  Yet  he  never  fought  and  suffered  as 
Michael  Angelo  for  Florence;  no  retinue  of  painters 
crowded  him  as  aroimd  Eaphael ;  and  the  few  poems  by 
his  hand  are  so  clumsy  and  uncouth,  that  Hans  Sach's 
language  m  comparison  has  a  Ciceronian  flavor.  But 
that  Diirer  knew  how  to  express  the  most  profound 
thoughts  is  proved  by  the  introduction  to  his  work  on 
Proportions,  and  that  his  interest  in  everything  going 
on  in  the  world  was  most  intense  the  pages  of  his 
diary  show,  —  where,  on  Luther's  being  taken  to  the 
Wartburg,  he  bursts  into  lamentations  over  the  loss 
of  such  a  man.  As  we  read  his  simple  words,  ending 
with  the  prayer  that  "  God  will  have  pity  on  the  con- 
dition of  Germany,"  we  understand  the  character  of 
the  people  among  whom  Luther  arose. 

We  are  accustomed  to  look  upon  the  "Eeforma- 
tion "  as  a  movement  growing  chiefly  out  of  literary 
antagonisms.  The  political  and  moral  incentives, 
whose  combined  working  brought  about  the  final 
great  result,  have  often  been  analyzed ;  but  what  rOle 
art  here  played  will  be  generally  known  only  when 
the  influence  of  religious  art  in  Germany,  and  its 
peculiar  nature  up  to  the  time  of  Diirer,  has  been 
thoroughly  examined  and  its  historical  connection 
demonstrated. 

Prior  to  the  "Reformation"  the  ideas  of  religion 
and  the  contents  of  sacred  history  were  familiarized 


ALBERT   DURER.  201 

to  tlie  people  mainly  through,  art.  Painted  walls  took 
the  place  of  books.  There  is  an  old  Italian  engraving, 
representing  the  painter  Apelles,  on  which  we  find 
these  words:  "Apelle  poeta  tacente,"  Apelles  wlio 
made  poems  without  words.  This  poetry  without 
words  was  quite  as  intelligible  at  that  time  as  any 
written  poems.  Temples  in  honor  of  God,  or  to  the 
renown  of  the  citizens,  filled  with  little  masterpieces 
of  sculpture-painting,  etc.,  were  the  manifestation  of 
ideas  in  the  silent  poem,  —  symbols  of  the  devotion, 
pride,  and  power  wliich  to-day  finds  expression  in 
well-roimded  sentences.  The  statue  of  a  man,  orna- 
mental, honorary  indeed,  yet  at  the  present  time  not 
adding  a  straw's  breadth  to  the  measure  of  his  great- 
ness, was  at  that  time  a  monument  wliich  positively 
created  and  expressed  the  veneration  of  the  people. 
No  mere  literary  phrasing  could  then  have  given  so 
clear  an  idea  of  the  character  of  a  man  as  Diirer's  and 
Eaphael's  portraits  gave.  It  would  have  been  sup- 
posed impossible  in  Eome,  as  well  as  Germany,  to 
make  words  suffice  for  what  they  were  able  to  do  with 
color,  just  as  it  would  seem  impossible  to  us  to-day 
to  exhaust  Shakespeare's  Juliet,  or  Goethe's  Ipliicjenia, 
in  works  of  plastic  art. 

Diirer  in  his  pictures  of  scenes  from  the  New  Tes- 
tament is  not  to  be  likened  to  our  present  illustrators. 
His  compositions  are  at  once  picture  and  text.  These 
engravings  were  scattered  over  Germany  in  thousands 
of   copies,  imitated   everywhere,   and  etched  in  Italy 


202  AXBEET  DUKEE. 

even  by  Marc  Anton,  who  had  devoted  himself  almost 
exclusively  to  Eaphael's  works.  These  life-like,  speak- 
ing pictures,  with  their  wealth  of  meaning,  prepared 
the  people  in  a  wonderful  way  for  Luther's  translation 
of  the  Bible.  The  German  cities  had  long  been  over- 
run with  representations  of  sacred  history,  many  of 
them,  of  course,  of  rare  merit.  I  need  only  remind 
you  of  Adam  Krafft's  Stations,  replete  with  feeling  that 
thrills  the  heart.  Yet  no  artist  was  able  to  depict  the 
events  in  the  life  of  Christ  as  Diirer  did,  so  connect- 
edly and  with  a  power  which  rivets  them  in  our  mem- 
ories until,  like  Shakespeare's  and  Goethe's  thoughts 
and  creations,  they  become  a  part  of  our  souls,  and 
there  lead  an  existence  of  their  own.  These  Bible 
pictures  by  Diirer's  hand  were  indehbly  stamped  on 
the  minds  of  the  people.  "VMioUy  free,  at  last,  from 
any  traces  of  Byzantine  mannerism,  they  touched 
every  chord  in  the  soul,  and  gave  to  scripture  history 
a  new  and  more  personal  application.  Into  the  midst 
of  all  this  came  Luther's  Bible,  —  the  first  book  in  the 
German  language  read  at  one  and  the  same  time  all 
over  Germany ;  it  contained  the  veritable  text  to  their 
pictures.  For  no  one  at  that  time  questioned  that 
God  had  dictated  the  gospels,  w^ord  for  word,  to  the 
evangelists  whose  names  they  bear. 

But  what  has  made  Diirer's  influence  of  special 
importance  is  the  ser^Tice  he  rendered  his  time,  like 
Giotto  at  the  side  of  Dante  in  Italy.  \Ye  have  droll- 
eries enough  to  be  sure  of   that  day,  but  no  purer 


ALBERT   DURER.  203 

memorial  exists  of  its  higher  graces  than  is  to  be 
found  in  Diirer's  life  and  works,  taken  as  a  whole. 
We  recognize  in  him  the  jubilant  feeling,  the  spring- 
like freshness,  with  which  the  German  people  from 
all  sides  flocked  about  Luther,  and  they  explam  the 
child-hke,  playful  vein  in  which  Luther  himself  —  tlie 
earnest  man — used  occasionally  to  characterize  the  sit- 
uation of  the  moment. 

When  Luther  describes  the  bird  parliament  under 
his  window  at  the  Wartburg,  —  the  cackling  of  the 
crows,  planning  a  crusade  into  Turkey,  —  it  seems  like 
one  of  Diirer's  sketches.  W^ien  hearing  Luther  tell 
how,  upon  the  chase  in  the  woods  around  the  castle,  a 
little  hare  sought  refuge  from  the  eager  hounds  in  his 
wide  sleeve,  the  scene  comes  before  me  as  if  etched 
by  Diirer.  It  is  a  pet  notion  of  Diirer  to  represent 
his  angel-children  playing  with  pretty  little  hares, 
when  he  paints  the  Madonna  in  the  midst  of  her  in- 
nocent court.  When  Luther  speaks  of  old  men  and 
maid-servants,  of  his  wife,  the  "  dommus  Ketha,"  as  he 
calls  her  in  jest,  of  the  children  and  their  little  odd 
ways,  of  his  professional  brethren  who  lie  abed  terror- 
stricken  lest  they  should  take  the  English  sweating- 
sickness,  and  how  he  persuades  them  to  get  up,  I  im- 
agine his  language  to  spring  from  the  same  source  as 
Diirer's  strokes  upon  paper.  One  man  illustrates  the 
other.  Ordinary  glimpses  into  the  life  of  that  period 
show  a  dull,  heavy  atmosphere  hanging  over  the  pic- 
ture.     The  people  about  Luther  appear  quarrelsome 


204 


ALBEET   DUKEK. 


and  often  vulgar,  and  in  the  universal,  social,  and 
political  strifes,  how  bald,  narrow-minded,  and  color- 
less seem  the  disputes.  The  general  condition  is,  to  a 
certain  extent,  dreary  and  forlorn.  But  whoever  knows 
Diirer  sees  the  sun  still  resting  upon  the  picture, 
and  all  around  the  green,  laughmg  fields  of  Germany. 
Even  poor  Emperor  Max,  in  his  old  age,  flitting  from 
one  leafless  bough  to  another,  like  an  eagle,  holding 
out  in  the  ram,  knowing  not  where  to  get  his  daily 
food,  receives  a  warm  beam  from  this  hght  and  is 
more  comfortable.  Krafft,  Vischer,  Sachs,  Pirkheimer, 
in  fact,  all  the  literary  men  and  artists  of  Nuremberg, 
gain  in  freshness  and  become  less  professional.  Even 
Holbein,  who  is  so  much  in  himself,  cannot  dispense 
with  Diirer.  Without  him  he  pales,  and  his  connec- 
tion with  the  age  loosens. 

Holbein  has  also  painted  New  Testament  scenes. 
His  compositions  are  executed  with  such  skill  that 
one  might  be  tempted  to  try  to  discover  in  them  some 
of  the  feeling  which  inspires  Diirer's  pencil.  But 
such  attempts  would  only  lead  to  disappomtment.  Hol- 
bein worked  with  rare  taste  and  marvellous  knowledge 
of  technique,  but  was  personally  indifferent  to  the 
spiritual  significance  of  these  thrilhng  events ;  and 
this  dissonance  is  so  striking  as  to  have  become  his 
marked  characteristic.  Holbein  has  painted  nothing 
that  awakens  deep  enthusiasm.  We  note  immense 
progress  in  him,  but  no  development.  His  Dresden 
Madonna  interprets  nothing  in  his  earlier  or  later  pro- 


ALBERT   DURER.  205 

ductions.  It  stands  by  itself,  a  miracle  of  art.  Diirer 
could  not  have  done  this ;  could  not  have  approached 
it  ever  so  remotely.  Diirer  never  attempted  to  paint 
the  beautiful  simply  for  its  own  sake,  or  to  produce  a 
work  whose  sole  aim  was  to  charm  the  beholder.  He 
was  too  childUke  for  this.  He  was  not  merely  a 
painter,  he  was  a  Nuremberg  painter,  whilst  Holbein 
had  a  universal  genius,  and  was  a  cosmopohte,  whose 
performances  —  like  Leonardo  da  Vinci's  —  resembled 
rather  those  of  a  magician  than  of  an  artist  human 
Hke  ourselves.  He  disappears  in  England  as  Leonardo 
in  France,  and  no  record  comes  to  us  of  their  fate. 
After  his  stay  in  London  the  city  rises  before  us  veiled 
in  fog,  and  just  as  unfamihar  as  if  he  had  never  been 
a  visitor  within  its  walls.  On  the  contrary,  Diirer's 
journeys  to  Venice  and  the  Netherlands  are  like  rifts 
in  clouds  which  else  would  wholly  conceal  the  places 
from  our  sight.  Warm  human  feehng  is  needed  to 
render  men  and  times  intelligible.  But  placing  Hol- 
bein by  the  side  of  Diirer,  it  seems  as  if  they  shared 
each  other's  genius,  and  we  involuntarily  attribute  to 
the  former  a  measure  of  the  wealth  of  genuine  feel- 
ing which  overflows  in  the  latter. 

I  return  to  my  opening  statement.  Diirer's  reputa- 
tion, as  understood  to-day,  is  of  recent  date.  What 
Diirer  was  to  his  time  and  his  friends  would  have 
been  transitory.  Many  a  man,  since  passed  into  ob- 
livion, was  just  as  heartily,  perhaps  even  more  heart- 
ily, mourned  and  missed  than  Diirer.     The  knowledge 


206  ALBERT   DUEER. 

was  resented  for  our  generation,  that  Diirer,  his  works 
and  his  times,  form  as  a  whole  a  work  of  art,  com- 
plete and  indivisible ;  bearing  the  unique  name  of 
Diirer,  but  signifying  an  era. 

The  great  men  of  Germany  have  never  been  re- 
nowned for  their  works  alone.  Raphael  was  a  painter, 
Corneille  a  poet,  Shakespeare  a  poet ;  but  Goethe  and 
Diirer  were  men.  Who  would  dream  of  denying  their 
right  to  this  name  to  the  former,  but  who  would  not 
feel  that  they  must  lay  the  greatest  stress  on  the  per- 
fection of  humanity  shown  in  the  two  last.  Goethe's 
and  Diirer's  greatness  did  not  lie  essentially  in  what 
they  produced,  but  in  how  they  produced  it.  They  be- 
queathed to  posterity  but  one  single  perfect  work,  — 
themselves. 

The  works  of  Eaphael,  Michael  Angelo,  Leonardo, 
and  Titian  separate  from  their  authors  and  stand  alone ; 
those  of  Corneille,  Eacine,  Cervantes,  Shakespeare,  and 
many  others,  do  likewise.  They  are  ripe,  finished,  self- 
sustained  creations.  The  works  are  more  conspicuous 
than  the  masters,  as  peaches  beyond  the  boughs  on 
which  they  have  grown.  But  the  works  of  the  great 
Germans  are  below  their  authors,  and  make  only  sub- 
ordinate elements,  —  integral  parts  of  an  indivisible, 
coherent  life,  which  in  itself  occupies  the  highest  place. 
This  peculiarity  belongs  to  German  character,  and  we 
demand  of  an  artist,  if  he  is  really  to  deserve  the  name 
in  its  highest  sense,  that  he  shall  bring  his  whole  life 
into  harmony  with  his  works. 


ALBEET  DUKER.  207 

What,  then,  is  Diirer's  mission  in  the  world  of  art 
to-day  ? 

All  mature  men,  filling  definite  positions  in  life,  feel 
that  on  their  co-operative  power  the  existence  of  the 
nation  must  rest,  and  long  to  be  actively  and  efficiently 
laboring  for  the  pubhc  good.  No  one  can  base  his  life 
on  work  which  is  performed  only  through  the  indul- 
gence or  the  help  of  others.  Such  a  condition  is 
insupportable.  The  consciousness  of  the  value  of  the 
work  must  stimulate  the  laborer.  We  desire  with 
increasing  years  to  grow  into  a  position  which  com- 
mands universal  respect,  and  constantly  to  enlarge  our 
horizon. 

But  what  rank  do  artists  take  among  these  progres- 
sive forces  ? 

I  reply,  such  as  the  success  of  their  work  gives 
them.  The  architect  is  not  esteemed  mainly  for  the 
beauty  of  his  buildings,  but  for  their  technical  impor- 
tance and  the  money  he  earns  by  them ;  the  painter 
and  musician,  by  the  prices  they  command ;  the  poet 
and  author,  by  the  success  of  their  productions.  We 
have  not  only  a  right  to  consider  this  outward  success, 
but  it  is  our  duty  to  impress  upon  those  who  would 
enter  upon  such  a  career  the  inevitable  intrusion  of 
these  low  motives.  For  such  is  hfe,  and  things  cannot 
be  changed.  Just  here,  however,  we  must  make  an 
exception.  No  one  would  deny  that  there  is  a  species 
of  labor,  elevated  by  its  aim  above  the  common  pur- 
suits of  life,  and  whose  fruits,  although,  perhaps,,  pecu- 


208  ALBERT   DURER. 

niarily  yielding  less  than  nothing  to  their  author,  are 
really  nobler  than  many  others  which  receive  the  rich- 
est reward. 

For  if  we  ask  what  the  world  honors  and  esteems 
as  the  highest  manliness,  and  the  sign  of  the  most  aris- 
tocratic nature,  it  is  this :  to  desire  nothing  from  the 
world,  and  even  to  scorn  what  it  offers.  The  novehst 
generally  pictures  the  fate  of  his  hero  as  perfectly 
tragic,  or,  to  say  the  least,  never  represents  him  sur- 
rounded with  all  the  luxuries  and  blandishments  of 
life.  It  was  Garibaldi's  refusal  to  accept  titles,  pro- 
motion, or  gifts,  which  made  him  appear  so  great.  He 
lived  a  poor  man  on  his  rocky  isle,  and  could  conceive 
of  no  pecuniary  reward  for  his  rare  achievements. 

The  number  of  those,  however,  who  are  able  to  rise 
to  this  height  of  unselfishness  is  extremely  limited, 
and  in  any  case  it  is  attained  only  as  the  result  of 
a  life  experience ;  men  do  not  begin  so.  A  man  who 
in  his  earlier  years  does  not  strive  to  make  himself  of 
account  in  the  world  is  either  an  invahd  or  wanting  in 
capacity.  To  have  something  to  do  that  yields  honor 
or  profit,  or  that  will  enable  one,  bom  to  the  gifts  of 
fortune,  to  be  of  eminent  service  in  public  life,  is  a 
necessity  to  all  healthily  organized  natures.  Goethe, 
Eaphael,  Shakespeare,  Michael  Angelo,  Beethoven,  and 
many  others,  left  behind  money,  houses,  and  estates, 
and  made  the  acquisition  of  these  a  point  of  interest. 
Diirer  also  left  a  house  and  a  considerable  property 
he  had  fairly  earned.     All  these  men  attained  their 


ALBERT   DURER.  209 

position  by  indefatigable  labor,  and  not  one  of  them 
depended  on  outward  support  conferred  on  them  for 
high  esthetic  reasons.  They  did  occasionally  receive 
gratuities.  Diirer  in  his  latter  years  obtained  a  sort 
of  imperial  pension,  which  was,  however,  irregularly 
enough  dealt  out  to  him.  The  way  in  which  artists 
were  assisted  was  by  conferring  upon  them  commis- 
sions worthy  of  their  talent.  Many  were  denied,  how- 
ever, even  these,  as  for  instance  Diirer ;  yet  this  was 
more  of  a  loss  to  the  people  than  to  the  artist.  Diirer, 
if  he  had  nothing  to  paint  in  oils,  etched  or  carved  or 
wrot€,  and  did  whatever  was  desired  of  him.  The 
beauty  in  his  works  he  gave  gratuitously,  threw  it  into 
the  bargain,  we  may  say ;  for  certainly  he  was  no  bet- 
ter paid  for  his  works  than  the  other  masters.  But  the 
pecuhar  advantage  which  Diirer,  and  all  artists  in  his 
time,  had  over  those  of  our  day  (the  best  as  well  as 
the  mediocre),  was  that  plastic  art,  as  I  have  already 
remarked,  was  very  extensively  used  as  the  readiest 
vehicle  for  almost  all  forms  of  intellectual  expression. 
The  artist  was  as  necessary  to  the  people  as  the  pub- 
lic amanuensis  to  the  Eoman  peasant  to-day,  to  whom 
is  simply  confided  the  subject  of  the  letter,  which  he 
writes  accordingly. 

Diirer,  although  having  the  highest  ideal  conception 
of  his  profession,  remained  to  the  last  an  artisan. 
But  whether  the  work  intrusted  to  him  was  a  large 
or  a  small  one,  whether  he  was  to  receive  much  or 
little  for  it,  was  of   far  less  importance  to  him  than 


210  ALBERT  DURER. 

that  he  should  be  able  to  make  it  a  work  of  art. 
And  herein  lies  the  distinction  between  the  artist  and 
the  artisan.  Diirer  puts  his  whole  soul  into  his  work, 
and  the  praise  he  strives  to  wring  from  himself  of 
having  rendered  it  in  a  manner  worthy  of  his  own 
nature  and  the  subject,  is  after  all  his  highest  reward ; 
which  he  takes  beforehand,  and  in  place  of  which  no 
extra  compensation  could  have  made  amends.  The 
consciousness  of  being  an  artisan  did  not  prevent  him 
from  associating  with  the  learned  men  of  his  time,  and 
attaching  some  value  to  his  social  position. 

What,  then,  was  Durer's  life  ?  First  apprenticed  to 
his  father  to  be  a  goldsmith,  then  with  Wohlgemuth  ; 
after  which  he  wandered  about  and  worked  with  vari- 
ous masters  in  one  city  and  another.  But  from  the 
outset  dependent  on  his  own  exertions.  At  last,  es- 
tablished in  Nuremberg,  he  became  the  master  of  a 
workshop,  and  by  his  glorious  character  acquired  his 
reputation,  constantly  striving  to  come  up  to  his  own 
lofty  standard,  without  which  he  might  have  been  as 
unsuccessful,  and  his  works  as  valueless,  as  the  other 
innumerable  productions  of  the  masters  around  him. 

Diirer  was  never  the  man  to  call  himself  an  artist, 
or,  because  he  carved  and  painted,  to  think  he  was 
doing  anything  remarkable.  He  was  a  Nuremberg 
burgher  and  master.  He  painted  when  pictures  were 
ordered,  etched,  and  sold  his  engravings  singly  or  in 
numbers ;  but  worked  on  steadily,  without  much  regard 
either  to  criticism  or  renown.     Not  the  encouragement 


ALBEET   DiJKEK.  211 

Diirer  received  made  him  a  worker,  but  his  innate 
talent,  which  must  come  out.  Like  a  hving  spring, 
which  flies  upward  all  the  same  whether  it  is  to  fall 
again  into  a  marble  basin  or  be  turned  off  into  a 
horse-trough.  It  will  up  and  aloft,  what  further  as 
God  will. 

The  views  change  which  a  nation  holds  of  its  men. 
At  first  Diirer  was  only  the  renowned  engraver ;  to 
his  friends,  the  truest  and  most  dehghtful  companion. 
Pirkheimer  -svrites  upon  his  tombstone,  "What  was 
mortal  of  Albrecht  Diirer  lies  beneath  this  stone." 
A  hundred  years  later  this  did  not  seem  enough  to 
Sandrart,  and  he  added  an  epitaph  extolhng  Diirer  as 
the  "prince  of  artists."  Later  still  he  was  portrayed 
with  dark,  burning  eyes,  curls,  and  an  imposing  beard ; 
but  this,  too,  had  been  outhved.  His  pictures  one  by 
one  have  disappeared  from  Nuremberg,  the  greater 
part  of  them  having  been  transported  to  foreign  coun- 
tries, till  at  last  precious  little  remains  there  save  his 
engravings. 

Years  glided  by,  when  at  last  the  interest  taken  by 
Goethe  in  Diirer  awakened  a  fuller  and  more  general 
appreciation  of  him.  Goethe  was  the  first  to  feel  the 
artist  in  his  works,  and  he  proved  from  them  the  ador- 
able nature  of  the  man.  At  the  close  of  the  last 
century  many  of  Diirer's  manuscripts  found  their  way 
again  to  the  hght.  In  the  beginning  of  the  present, 
when  the  opposition  to  the  old  school  in  Germany 
gained  the  ascendency,  disciples  of  the  new  theories 


212  ALBEET   DURER. 

made  Diirer  their  apostle.  The  excitement  about  him 
steadily  increased,  and  at  the  three  hundredth  anni- 
versary of  his  death  the  enthusiasm  reached  its  cli- 
max in  Nuremberg  and  Munich.  A  statue  was  erected 
to  him ;  henceforth  his  name  should  herald  the  renais- 
sance of  German  art. 

This  ardor  has,  to  be  sure,  somewhat  abated;  but 
real  appreciation  of  the  man  gains  steadily.  And  yet, 
as  I  have  said,  Diirer  is  known  to  fame,  while  still 
unknown  to  the  people  at  large ;  only  the  few  having 
a  comprehensive  idea  of  his  life,  his  works,  his  in- 
fluence. Photography  has  made  it  possible  to  obtain 
the  greater  part  of  his  productions.  Photo-hthographic 
copies  of  the  Passion,  and  especially  of  scenes  from  the 
Life  of  Mary,  are  now  to  be  bought,  and  wherever 
they  go  kindle  appreciation  of  the  truth  and  intense 
feeling  in  Diirer's  works.  One  must  see  the  produc- 
tions of  a  man  before  he  can  understand  him ;  there- 
fore, with  all  our  veneration  for  the  man,  the  full 
knowledge  of  his  greatness  is  yet  in  the  future.  But 
those  who  love  him  will  ever  cherish  the  idea  that  in 
his  personality,  in  his  character,  is  to  be  found  his 
highest  worth.  The  unpretending  nature  of  his  works^ 
is  a  part  of  their  excellence,  as  his  almost  uneventful 
career  was  one  of  the  essentials  in  his  development. 

Who  knows  him  not  is  deficient  in  a  knowledge  of 
German  history ;  but  those  who  do  know  him  will 
always  hear  in  the  name  of  Diirer  the  inspiring  tones 
of  Germany,  —  the  Fatherland. 


THE   BROTHERS    GRIMM. 

On  the  16th  of  December,  1859,  at  three  o'clock  in 
the  afternoon,  WiUiam  Grimm  died.  He  was  buried 
on  the  morning  of  the  20th,  in  the  Mattha'  kirch  hofe 
in  Berlin.  The  wind  blew  icy-chill  as  the  coffin  was 
borne  up  the  hill,  on  whose  gradual  slope  the  new 
graveyard  lies.  Beside  the  open  grave  stood  Jacob 
Grimm  and  William's  two  sons.  Tears  flowed  from 
every  eye  when  Jacob,  uncovering  his  head,  stooped 
down,  and,  taking  up  a  handful  of  earth,  threw  it  in 
after  the  lifeless  form  now  to  be  left  alone  in  the  cold 
depth. 

"William  Grimm  was  born  at  Hanau  in  1786.  The 
incidents  of  his  external  hfe  are  to  be  read  in  many 
places.  They  were  few  and  simple.  His  father  died 
early.  With  his  mother  and  the  other  children  he 
went  to  Cassel,  where  he  attended  school.  Owing  to  a 
serious  illness  in  his  twelfth  year,  his  health  continued 
through  hfe  extremely  delicate,  and  his  labors  and 
manner  of  living  were  regulated  accordingly.  His 
first  visit  to  Berlin  was  in  1809,  when  he  went  thither 
to  stay  with  his  intimate  friend,  Achin  von  Arnim. 
The  succeeding  years  he  spent  chiefly  in  Cassel.  In 
1825  he  married  there,  and  some  years  later  removed 
with  Jacob  to  Gottingen,  which  town  he   afterwards 

213 


214  THE   BROTHERS   GRIMM. 

left  with  his  brother  to  return  to  Cassel,  from  thence 
they  were  soon  called  to  Berlin,  here  to  spend  the  re- 
mainder of  their  days.  The  brothers  had  one  house, 
one  library,  one  purse. 

In  recalhng  William  Grimm's  career,  however,  it  is 
not  with  the  changes  of  the  years  or  places  of  abode 
that  our  minds  are  occupied.  Even  his  dearest  friends, 
if  they  would  know  the  exact  sequence  of  these 
events,  must  hunt  them  up  in  encyclopsedias.  Our 
feeUng  at  the  loss  of  a  man  whom  we  have  known 
and  loved  has  Httle  to  do  with  the  mere  incidents  in 
his  career,  which  latter  it  is  the  work  of  a  biographer 
to  set  forth.  How  few  of  those  who  most  deeply  la- 
mented the  loss  of  Humboldt  knew  more  of  him  than 
that  he  was  born  in  1769,  and,  after  extensive  travels 
in  Asia  and  America,  spent  the  rest  of  his  life  chiefly 
in  Berlin.  The  conception  of  a  person  retained  by 
his  contemporaries  is  no  mere  schedule,  however  long, 
of  his  achievements  or  vicissitudes,  but  a  clear  com- 
prehension of  their  worth,  position,  and  power  while 
living,  and  of  the  void  left  behind  at  their  departure. 

This  was  the  feeling  when  Bettina  or  when  Hum- 
boldt died.  The  extent  of  what  we  had  lost  was  meas- 
ured by  the  magnitude  of  what  we  must  henceforth 
hve  without.  It  is  not  a  year  since  both  passed  away. 
As  writer  and  poet,  when  Bettina  died,  her  labors  had 
long  ceased;  but  as  an  intellectual  power,  as  having 
the  keenest  eyes  for  whatever  was  great  or  fair,  and 
the  most  eloquent  lips  to  describe  it,  she  might  have 


THE   BROTHERS    GRIMM.  215 

lived  on  forever.  Humboldt,  the  man  of  science,  had 
embodied  in  the  Cosmos  the  result  of  his  long  and 
gigantic  labors,  had  apparently  finished  his  work  on 
earth ;  he  was  old  and  wearied,  and  had  now  a  claim 
to  immortality.  We  had  no  right  to  detain  him  longer ; 
yet,  as  patron  of  all  and  every  intellectual  effort,  we 
cannot  but  wish  that  he  might  have  lived  for  centuries ; 
there  is  no  one  to  fill  his  place.  He  never  repulsed 
any  one,  or  overlooked  genuine  merit ;  and  where  he 
recognized  talent,  protected  it.  He  often  gratified  men 
with  flatteriug  speeches,  because,  in  his  long  experience, 
he  had  discovered  the  stimulating  effect  of  this  small 
coin  ;  but  he  was  far  too  sincere  to  give  only  this.  He 
used  his  great  influence  at  court  to  have  superior  abil- 
ity rewarded  and  given  the  high  position  it  deserved, 
lending  personal  aid  and  support  freely  whenever  it 
was  necessary.  He  expressed  his  opinion  with  cour- 
age, and  openly.  This  was  the  irretrievable  loss  to  us 
when  his  eyes  closed  in  death. 

And  in  "William  Grimm  what  we  miss  and  passion- 
ately deplore  is,  not  the  man,  who  with  untiring  assi- 
duity did  all  that  in  him  lay  for  the  glory  of  Germany. 
This  he  did,  and  his  share  was  large  indeed.  He  was 
almost  seventy-four  years  old,  and  had  a  right  to  enter 
into  his  rest.  From  book  to  book  he  had  pressed 
steadily  forward;  not  a  day  of  his  life  had  passed 
unimproved.  The  Kiiider-Mdrchen  (the  Danish  songs 
which  he  translated),  the  German  sagas,  editions  of  old 
poems,  academic  treatises,  and,  finally,  his  share  in  the 


216  THE   BROTHEKS   GEIMM. 

great  German  dictionary,  unite  to  form  a  crown  full 
and  rich  enougli  to  cover  his  temples.  It  would  be 
unreasonable  to  desire  that  he  should  further  toil. 
And  he,  too,  had  reached  a  kind  of  terminus.  Just  as 
he  dropped  upon  his  bed,  in  his  last  brief  illness,  the 
letter  D  of  the  Worterhuch  (his  last  undertaking)  was 
finished,  a  new  edition  of  the  Mdrclien  ready,  which 
he  examined,  and  selected  the  copies  to  be  distrib- 
uted among  his  friends;  a  new  edition  of  Freidank's 
Bescheidenheit  finished  in  manuscript,  and  finally,  a 
lecture  he  intended  to  dehver  in  the  Academy  of  Sci- 
ence on  the  15th  of  December. 

But  who  of  those  who  knew  him  intimately  regard 
even  these  as  more  than  subsidiary  to  the  nobler  mem- 
ories which  cling  to  his  hfe  and  person  ?  We  think 
of  his  gentleness,  his  repose,  his  broad,  fair  judgments, 
and  the  perpetual  geniality  which,  like  a  fresh,  benefi- 
cent atmosphere,  surrounded  him.  His  friends  ascribe 
all  this  to  him  from  his  earliest  years.  An  optimism 
of  the  most  generous  kind  was  born  in  him.  Even 
when  things  were  in  the  wildest  confusion,  he  sought 
and  found  the  way  to  a  good  issue.  And  in  this  tone 
he  uttered  his  last  words,  while  already  rapt  in  dreams. 
He  denied  what  was  evil  as  long  as  he  could ;  but 
once  fully  recognized,  threw  no  mantle  over  it,  and  if 
it  threatened  to  approach  moved  out  of  its  sphere.  With 
marvelous  patience  he  adapted  himself  to  the  inevitable. 
The  conscientiousness  with  which  he  strove  to  perfect 
his  work  he  extended  to  all  the  relations  of  life.     Per- 


THE   BROTHERS   GRIMM.  217 

haps  his  most  charming  feature  was  his  capacity  of  im- 
parting to  all  who  approached  him  his  own  tranquil- 
lity, and  cheerful,  grateful  recognition  of  the  blessings 
of  life.  He  gladly  went  back  to  places  he  had  once 
visited,  and  retraced  the  old  familiar  paths.  He  took 
a  lively  interest  in  recalHng  past  events  and  interests. 
With  what  tenderness  he  spoke  of  the  departed  whom 
he  had  once  known !  How  irrevocably  strong  in  him 
was  the  tie  of  early  friendship  !  It  was  cherished  with 
sacred  reverence.  The  nature  of  his  social  intercourse 
can  never  be  described.  William  Grimm  was  liebens- 
wurdig  in  the  highest  sense  of  the  word.  As  in  the 
Mdrchen  he  caught  the  poetry  of  the  people,  rendering 
their  very  words  with  an  art  which  in  itself  was  poetry, 
and  which  no  one  has  since  attained,  although  so  much 
attention  has  been  given  to  this  branch  of  literature ; 
so  in  his  lightest  narrations  he  caught  the  naive  aspect 
of  things,  and  set  them  forth  in  the  simplest  and  most 
natural  manner.  He  loved  to  tell  stories.  He  elevated 
the  character  of  social  intercourse  by  infusing  his 
whole  nature  and  soul  mto  his  words.  In  his  strictly 
scientific  works,  in  his  more  lightly  conceived  essays, 
prefaces  and  letters,  always  and  everywhere  we  per- 
ceive the  same  delight  in  the  contemplation  of  things, 
and  the  same  felicity  of  expression  in  communicating 
this  joy  to  others.  And  this  capacity  for  happiness 
increases  with  his  years.  Ever  more  cheerful  and 
more  contented  as  his  days  roll  on.  Up  to  the  last 
moment  this  serenity  continues.     How  gladly  he  ren- 


218  THE   BROTHERS   GEIMM. 

ders  a  friendly  service !  How  willingly  receives  one 
in  return  when  offered !  He  recognizes  the  smallest 
token  of  kindness,  accepting  it  with  heartfelt  grati- 
tude. 

What  has  been  here  said  is  merely  the  image  mem- 
ory presents  to  those  who,  overcome  by  the  blow 
which  has  fallen  upon  them  so  unexpectedly,  can 
speak  but  of  what  is  nearest  to  them.  We  do  not 
eulogize  such  men,  we  only  name  them.  Not  a  sylla- 
ble of  praise  was  spoken  over  his  cofhn ;  it  stood  close 
beside  his  writing-desk,  the  books  still  open  upon  it  as 
if  he  had  just  been  reading  them,  —  the  inkstand,  the 
pen,  the  little  scraps  of  paper  bearing  miscellaneous 
notes,  the  pictures  on  the  walls,  —  each  one  a  memento 
of  beloved  people  or  places ;  it  was  impossible  to  be- 
lieve that  he  was  nevermore  to  look  at  them.  But  this 
feeling  must  pass.  The  world  is  poorer  by  the  loss  of 
one  man  ;  others  will  step  forward  in  his  place.  His 
friends  will  console  themselves  in  the  flight  of  years, 
speak  of  him  less  frequently ;  but  his  image  will  grow 
ever  more  and  more  distinct,  until  by  degrees  what  he 
has  done  will  concentrate  itself  in  his  very  name.  So 
long  as  the  German  language  endures,  so  long  will  the 
name  of  William  Grimm  be  in  itself  a  word  signify- 
ing a  noble  man,  whose  life  and  talents  were  conse- 
crated to  his  people. 

Berlin,  Dec.  21,  1859. 


THE  BKOTHEES   GKIMM.  219 

APPENDIX    TO 

JACOB    GRIMM'S    ORATION    ON    HIS    BROTHER, 

DELIVERED  IN  THE   ACADEMY  OF  SCIENCE,  JULY  5,  1860. 

Ox  beginning  to  speak  Jacob  Grimm  bad  been,  as 
usual,  somewhat  hoarse,  and  the  words  came  with  a 
certain  hesitation.  Only  by  degrees  did  the  discourse 
flow  on  smoothly.  He  was  the  last  to  speak  at  the 
sitting,  and  it  was  already  late.  Many  will  ever  re- 
member him  as  he  stood  holding  the  written  leaves 
turned  toward  the  window  to  gain  a  better  light, 
whilst  the  fading  beams  of  day  fell  upon  his  white 
hair. 

William's  illness  and  death  had  come  unexpectedly. 
On  his  return  from  a  httle  journey  in  the  autumn  of 
1859,  he  had  seemed  unusually  fresh  and  vigorous. 
His  malady  at  first  appeared  quite  insignificant.  Sud- 
denly dangerous  symptoms  set  in ;  a  carbuncle  devel- 
oped on  his  back,  which  did  not  yield  to  treatment. 
At  last,  however,  he  believed  the  trouble  overcome. 
"God  be  praised,"  said  my  father,  sittmg  up  in  his 
bed ;  "  I  had  really  thought  it  wou^  end  fatally,  and  I 
have  still  so  much  to  do."  That  he  had  had  a  presenti- 
ment he  should  not  live  through  the  winter  is  clear 
from  certain  directions  found  among  his  papers,  which 
were  later  carried  out  for  the  printing  of  the  new  edi- 
tion of  Freidank. 


220  THE   BKOTHEES   GEIMM. 

In  one  night  all  was  decided;  violent  fever  set  in, 
and  on  the  morning  of  December  16  th  he  died.  He 
was  not  wholly  conscious  at  the  last.  Jacob  was  sit- 
ting on  a  low  stool  beside  his  pillow,  almost  counting 
every  breath  he  drew.  He  recognized  him,  but  fan- 
cied it  was  his  picture,  and  said,  "  It  looks  very  like 
him."  He  spoke  much,  and,  strange  to  say,  just  be- 
fore his  death,  owing  to  the  sudden  working  of  some 
secret  law,  the  confused  thoughts  arranged  themselves 
clearly  and  succinctly.  In  well-formed,  calmly-evolved 
sentences,  he  talked  of  himself,  of  what  he  had  planned, 
what  accomplished  ;  glided  from  past  to  present,  and 
gave  his  opinion  of  the  political  condition ;  taking  the 
same  serene,  hopeful  view  of  things  he  had  always 
done,  and  ending  so  naturally  that,  had  we  not  seen  he 
was  struck  with  death,  such  a  revelation  of  thought 
must  have  implied  the  full  possession  of  healthily 
working  powers. 

The  papers  were  filled  with  the  most  romantic  ac- 
counts of  Jacob's  condition  after  the  death  of  his 
brother.  In  despair,  he  was  said  to  be  wandering 
about  in  the  lonely  rooms,  seeking  for  him  who  was 
no  more.  Nothing  of  the  kind  was  true.  He  accepted 
the  event  very  quietly,  although  he  of  all  had  least 
expected  it.  Toward  the  dawn  of  the  last  day,  as  I 
went  to  awaken  him,  I  heard  his  quiet  breathing ;  he 
was  peacefully  asleep.  "  Ah,  my  God ! "  he  said,  "  I  had 
thought  all  would  now  go  on  well."  After  my  father 
was  dead,  he  often  went  into  the  study  where  he  lay 


THE   BEOTHEES   GEIMM.  221 

to  gaze  at  him  long  and  earnestly.  At  the  funeral, 
he  walked  between  my  brother  and  myself  up  the  gen- 
tle slope  of  the  burial-ground,  in  the  piercing  wind, 
stepping  firmly  over  the  crackling  snow.  It  will  also 
never  be  forgotten  by  those  standing  around  the  grave, 
how  he  stooped,  and  with  his  dehcate  fingers  picked 
out  a  clod  of  earth  which  he  threw  after  the  coffin. 
There  was  no  change  perceptible  in  his  general  de- 
meanor. He  immediately  resumed  his  customary  work, 
and  went  on  with  it  in  the  old  way. 

This  calmness  under  his  heavy  trial,  and  which  ren- 
dered it  possible  for  him  to  speak  of  it  pubHcly,  surely 
arose  from  the  feeling  that,  at  most,  the  separation 
was  only  for  a  very  few  years.  How  passionately,  in 
earlier  days,  the  thought  of  William's  dying  before 
him  had  excited  him,  I  read  in  a  letter  to  Lachmann, 
with  whom  he  maintained  unbroken  correspondence 
from  1820  to  1840,  and  to  whom  he  opened  his  heart 
as  to  no  one  else. 

My  father  was  also  in  correspondence  with  Lach- 
mann, and  all  the  letters  and  answers  are  before  me. 

"  How  long,  dear  Lachmann,"  he  wTites  21st  February,  Got- 
tingen,  "  I  have  striven  to  find  a  leisure  day  or  quiet  hour  in 
■vshich  to  reply  to  your  consoling  letter  of  December  28th,  and 
to  inform  you  of  all  that  has  befallen  us.  On  the  day  when 
the  in  every  respect  disgusting  riot  in  this  place  came  to  an 
end,  "William,  who  had  probably  taken  cold  during  the  previous 
night  watching  over  the  threatened  library,  went  to  bed  ill. 
The  first  few  days  inspired  no  alarm.  We  supposed  it  a  return 
of  the  catarrhal  fever  which  from  time  to  time  had  troubled 


222  THE   BEOTHEES   GEIMM. 

him;  but  after  one  fit  of  coughing  came  a  hemorrhage,  —  a 
dangerous  sign  of  inflammation  of  the  lungs,  and  his  life  was 
manifestly  in  danger.  Heaven  graciously  listened  to  our  sup- 
plications, and  improvement  soon  appeared;  since  then  he  has 
by  degrees,  but  slowly,  recovered,  although  he  has  not  yet  his 
full  vigor.  With  what  anguish  of  heart  I  sat  during  these 
hea\'y  days  at  his  table,  covered  with  his  work ;  how  everji;hing 
I  looked  at  pained  me,  —  his  books,  his  writings,  the  order  and 
neatness  evei"yT\here,  absorbed  as  I  was  with  the  idea  that  per- 
haps all  this  might  end  at  one  fell  stroke,  and  that  my  own  life 
must  be  spent  in  mourning  and  longing  for  him.  I  cannot 
describe  my  feelings ;  I  can  only  say,  that  I  prayed  to  God 
ardently,  and  thanked  him  fervently  for  the  mercy  he  has 
showTi  us.  After  such  days  one  breathes  freely,  as  after  a  ter- 
rible thunder-storm,  and  is  prepared  to  endure  bravely  other 
trials,  which  do  not  take  the  very  heart  out  of  us." 

What  he  has  here  said  is  repeated  in  the  preface  to  a 
new  part  of  the  grammar  then  in  progress,  which  was 
dedicated  to  "VVilham.  In  this  he  says,  that  he  almost 
beheves  he  wrote  all  his  books  specially  for  him,  since 
nobody  else  accepted  them  in  such  a  true  spirit.  The 
dedications  of  their  books  form  a  record  of  their  friend- 
ships. Scarcely  one  of  the  intimate  friends  has  been 
omitted. 

The  lives  of  both  up  to  the  time  when  they  left 
Cassel  for  Gottingen  they  have  themselves  related  in 
autobiographies  composed  for  Justi. 

What  I  shall  here  attempt  to  give  is  merely  a  glimpse 
of  their  last  years,  by  way  of  introduction  to  Jacob 
Grimm's  discourse  upon  Old  Age,  of  which  he  could 
not  have  written  so  eloquently  had  it  not  been  his  own 
experience. 


THE   BKOTHERS    GRIMM.    ((  ^J^J  p'^2^^^ 


Jacob  speaks  of  those  first  years  in  Cassel  as  being 
the  happiest  in  his  life.  The  position  offered  in  Grot^ 
tingen  was  in  every  respect  an  honorable  reparation 
for  the  injury  which  made  a  longer  stay  in  their  chosen 
home  impossible ;  on  the  other  hand,  they  missed  the 
leisure  for  their  special  work,  which  they  had  there 
enjoyed  in  the  richest  measure.  Instead  of  three 
working  hours,  and  even  these  devoted  for  the  most 
part  to  their  own  matters,  twice  that  number  was 
demanded  in  Gottingen.  It  was  hard  to  accustom 
themselves  to  it,  and  in  the  letters  to  Lachmann  this 
is  often  expressed ;  hence  when  upon  their  banish- 
ment to  Gottingen  they  returned  to  the  old  place, 
where,  wholly  undisturbed,  they  might  once  more  ded- 
icate their  lives  to  their  own  work,  amid  all  the  sad 
circumstances  by  which  it  was  attended,  they  really  at 
heart  felt  it  to  be  a  blessing.  The  most  painful  part  of 
it  all  was,  that  from  now  on  between  the  old  Cassel 
friends  who  took  their  side,  and  those  who  openly,  or 
covertly,  drew  back  from  them,  there  must  be  a  separa- 
tion. They  lost  many  friends  at  this  time,  but  fresh  ones 
came  in  their  place,  and  from  this  period  date  most  of 
the  close  friendships  which  were  the  joy  of  their  latter 
years ;  the  intimate  union  with  Dahlmann  and  Gervinus, 
with  whom  they  had  long  been  acquainted,  was  now 
formed,  which  remained  unbroken  to  the  last.  I  here 
introduce  part  of  a  letter  to  Lachmann  after  the  first 
impression  had  somewhat  subsided,  and  the  brothers 
(who  did  not  leave  Gottingen  together)  were  reunited, 
and  firmly  established  in  Cassel. 


224  THE   BROTHERS   GRIMM. 

Cassel,  May  12, 1840. 
The  sun  -which  for  tliree  weeks  has  shone  unintermittingly, 
and  brought  forward  the  most  beautifid  spring  I  think  I  ever 
knew  in  my  life,  since  yesterday  is  agam  behmd  the  clouds,  and 
all  too  quickly  cold  weather  has  set  in  upon  us.  Yet  your  let- 
ter has  been  like  the  warmth  of  the  sun  to  me,  and  I  rejoice 
that  you  still  love  us ;  for  in  my  heart  is  the  old  friendships 
and  affection.  There  have  been  some  things  which  grieved  and 
annoyed  me,  but  they  were  not  great  ones ;  most  pamful  to  me 
has  been  the  occasional  suspicion  that  you  were  more  and  more 
drawing  back  from  us,  and  no  longer  taking  the  same  interest 
in  our  life  and  work.  It  would  be  natural,  I  suppose,  that  just 
now  we  should  be  very  sensitive.  Had  you  come  alone  and 
stayed  longer  with  us  last  autumn,  ever}-thing  would  then  have 
been  satisfactorily  explained.  I  have  indeed  never  had  the 
slightest  cause  to  reproach  you  as  to  yom-  conduct  in  this  mat- 
ter ;  your  opinion  was  always  given  openly  and  honestly,  and 
in  so  many  essential  points  coincided  with  ours,  that  it  has 
afforded  me  much  satisfaction ;  it  was  neither  to  be  expected, 
nor  was  it  necessary,  that  you  should  agree  to  everything  at 
once.  But  reticence  and  the  refusal  to  give  a  distinct  opinion, 
though  coupled  -uith  a  sympathy  which  I  am  sure  was  intended 

to  be  sincere  as  was  my  experience  with ,  woimded  me. 

In  all  he  said  he  seemed  to  imply  that  he  had  been  kept  in 
ignorance  of  the  facts  necessary,  for  complete  insight  into  the 
matter;  whilst  they  lie  so  openly  and  fully  before  the  world 
that  I  cannot  conceive  how  anybody  can  withhold  his  decision 
in  this  case,  if  he  has  the  courage  to  pronoimce  judgment  on 
any  historical  event  whatsoever.  I  have  never  yet  repented  our 
step  for  an  instant,  and  when  I  think  of  Gottingen  praise  God 
that  he  has  taken  me  away  from  the  place  which  I  should  now 
feel  to  be  insufferable.  I  still  stand  the  trial  when  I  ask  my- 
self what  a  Greek  or  Roman  would  or  would  not  have  done  in 
our  situation.     The  act  to  me,  at  the  time  of  its  occm-rence, 


THE    BROTHERS    GRIMM.  225 

seemed  much  more  insignificant ;  simply  natural  and  right,  and 
I  believe  nothing  avails  men  and  nations  but  to  be  just  and 
brave ;  this  is  the  basis  of  all  sound  policy.  Whether  any 
or  what  kind  of  fruit  shall  come  of  it  lies  in  God's  directing 
hand ;  there  are  trees  which  spread  out  their  broad  arms 
according  to  their  strength,  which  bear  no  fruit,  and  are  only 
to  afford  shade  and  verdure  in  the  land.  I  cannot,  however, 
restrain  the  thought  (and  it  makes  me  so  much  the  more  hum- 
ble) that  this  may  prove  a  spark  without  which  the  fire  of 
resistance  would  not  have  been  kindled  that  is  now  becoming 
a  blessing  to  our  whole  country.  For  the  future  of  the  Ger- 
man nation  depends  on  the  public  regard  for  the  sentiments  of 
honor  and  freedom. 

I  am  not  hostile  to  the  world,  and  cling  with  ardent  love  to 
my  country.  But,  after  my  Gottingen  experience,  once  more 
in  the  peaceful  retirement  of  Cassel  I  feel  that  I  am  so  much 
happier  here,  that  if  we  Protestants  had  the  institution  of  mon- 
astic life,  without  other  monkish  worship,  I  would  gladly  pass 
the  rest  of  my  short  span  of  life  thus  apart  from  the  maddening 
crowd.  It  is  my  nature  to  learn  less  from  intercourse  and 
teaching  than  from  my  own  efforts.  It  has  also  disinclined  me 
to  social  intercourse,  that  almost  all  talks  or  discussions  are 
brought  to  bear  upon  these  public  affairs  of  ours,  which  is  most 
disagreeable  and  painful.  And  what  should  I  be  in  the  tur- 
moil of  Berlin  ?  I  could  accomplish  nothing  there,  either  for 
myself  or  others,  which  could  not  be  done  more  agreeably 
almost  anywhere  else.  Heaven  grant  and  help  that  Prussia 
may  not  hinder,  but  guide  and  stimulate,  the  rest  of  Germany ! 

Some  months  after  these  words  were  written,  how- 
ever, came  the  call  to  Berlin,  which  was  accepted. 

Among  Jacob's  papers  I  found  one  directed  to  Sa- 
vigny,  in  which  he  gives  his  reasons  for  refusing  the 
summons  to  Bonn  in  the  year  1816.     The  salary  in 


226  THE   BROTHERS   GRIMM. 

Cassel  was  extremely  small,  but  he  writes :  "  I  confess 
the  money  consideration  influences  my  decision  very 
little,  as  my  limited  wants  make  this  of  trifling  im- 
portance, and  I  am  confident  that  I  shall  always  have 
enough  to  live  honorably."  Nor  would  they  have 
f>one  to  Berlin  in  1840  had  their  circumstances  left 
them  any  choice.  William  had  been  there  in  1809  to 
visit  Achin  von  Arnim ;  the  city  had  pleased  him  so 
little,  that  when  not  long  after  Savigny  was  called 
from  Landshut  thither,  he  sincerely  pitied  him.  Since 
that  time,  however,  great  changes  had  taken  place  in 
Berhn;  but  the  brothers  shrank  from  the  turmoil  of 
the  large,  distant  city,  where  they  feared  they  should 
always  feel  themselves  to  be  strangers.  Jena  or  Leip- 
zig, or  best  of  all  Marburg,  would  have  seemed  very 
much  nearer;  they  would  gladly  have  remained  in 
Hesse,  which  is,  perhaps,  the  country  in  all  Germany 
most  passionately  loved  by  its  inhabitants.  Notwith- 
standing this  attachment,  which  never  diminished,  after 
they  had  made  their  choice  and  entered  Berlin,  the 
first  unfavorable  impression  was  wholly  reversed ;  they 
found  retirement,  comfort,  and  resources  in  a  far  greater 
degree  than  they  had  enjoyed  in  Cassel.  Both  the 
brothers  were  very  happy  in  Berlin,  and  my  father 
especially  often  represented  to  strangers  in  the  clear- 
est light  the  advantages  this  city  afforded.  Independ- 
ent, absolute  masters  of  their  time,  relieved  from  every 
social  obligation,  they  soon  created  for  themselves  a  true 
home,  and,  as  compared  with  former  years,  the  health 


THE   BROTHERS   GRIMM.  227 

of  both  had  so  much  improved,  there  remained  Httle 
to  wish  for. 

Over  twenty  years  their  labors  in  Berlin  went  on 
continuously.  Journeys  infringed  but  httle,  the  long- 
est interruption  for  Jacob  being  a  visit  to  Italy  and 
a  stay  in  Frankfort,  when  he  was  elected  member  of 
Parliament  in  1848.  He  lectured  in  the  university 
only  a  few  years,  but  rarely  failed  to  be  present  at  the 
sittings  of  the  Academy  of  Science,  and  often  dehvered 
the  treatise.  Of  these  dissertations  he  enjoyed  giving 
his  friends  printed  copies,  and  it  was  his  intention  to 
have  pubHshed  a  collection  of  them ;  but  as  he  wished 
to  remodel  them,  this  was  postponed  from  time  to  time, 
and  he  was  never  able  to  accompHsh  it.  His  pubhshed 
works,  ranged  in  serried  files,  stood  all  around  his 
work-table  so  that  from  his  chair  he  could  comfortably 
reach  any  one  of  them.  He,  and  Wilham  also,  had 
the  Worterbuch  printed  with  very  broad  margins,  and 
the  separate  sheets  lay  in  piles  beside  his  writmg- 
desk,  these  margins  quite  covered  with  supplement- 
ary remarks.  After  WiUiam's  death  Jacob  laid  his 
brother's  copy  beside  his  own.  All  these  books,  objects 
of  reverence  to  us  for  so  many  years,  now  stand 
orphaned,  with  a  dubious  fate  before  them.  For  to 
whom  will  all  this  labor  be  of  value  ?  Among  Jacob's 
papers  was  found  one  of  an  early  date  containing  the 
express  command  that  after  his  death  all  his  notes 
should  be  burned.  To  be  sure,  they  would  be  of  httle 
use  to  others,  as  he  alone  had  the  key  to  them.  His 
books  he  thought  might  again  be  used. 


228  THE   BROTHEES    GRIMM, 

He  loved  his  books  —  the  word  is  not  too  strong  — 
dearly,  and  the  joint  library  was  under  his  special  pro- 
tection. He  had  the  different  works  bound  in  a  vari- 
ety of  ways  after  his  special  directions,  and  indulged 
his  taste  in  this  matter  to  the  point  of  luxury.  The 
good  or  better  opinion  he  entertained  of  a  book  was 
indicated  by  the  less  or  more  costly  bindings. 

Occasional  things  intended  for  presents  were  bound 
in  purple  velvet.  The  Freidank,  printed  after  the 
death  of  my  father,  received  the  most  costly  binding 
which  could  be  made.  It  was  quite  natural  that  he 
who  for  many  years  had  been  a  librarian  should 
regard  his  own  library  as  a  kind  of  personahty.  He 
often  surveyed  with  satisfaction  the  rows  of  books, 
took  down  this  or  that  volume,  looked  into  it,  closed 
it,  and  put  it  back  again  in  its  place.  It  pleased  him 
to  jump  up  and  find  the  book  which  others  had 
searched  for  in  vain. 

When  upon  my  father's  death  his  room  was  added 
to  the  library,  he  arranged  the  books  with  his  own 
hands  after  a  new  plan.  He  could  lay  his  hand  in  the 
dark  upon  every  book  in  his  library.  He  did  not  like 
to  lend  them,  because  he  was  in  the  habit  of  writing 
in  them,  and  inserting  scraps  of  paper  covered  with 
annotations.  Many  volumes  bear  on  the  fly-leaf  a 
double  index,  one  in  William's  and  one  by  Jacob's 
hand.  In  a  letter  to  Lachmann,  he  speaks  jocosely  of 
the  future  auction  of  his  books,  and  how  the  people 
will  wonder  that  such  costly  volumes  as  the  magnifi- 


THE   BROTHERS   GRIMM,  229 

cent  edition  of  tlie  Nibelungen  should  be  found  among 
them;  he  also  once  said  to  me  that  the  books  would 
be  scattered  after  his  death  and  my  father's,  and  that 
no  one  else  understood  the  system  according  to  which 
the  collection  had  been  made ;  when  on  such  occasions 
he  was  contradicted,  he  let  it  pass.  Many  times  we 
had  assured  him  that  the  books  should  not  be  divided 
or  sold  at  auction,  and  still,  even  in  his  last  hours, 
while  his  eyes  showed  that  he  understood  all  that  was 
said,  and  we  were  trying  to  say  what  would  please  and 
quiet  him,  we  repeated  the  promise  that  the  library 
should  be  reverently  preserved.  Perhaps  a  place  will 
be  found  for  it  in  some  university,  where  it  will  be 
serviceable  and  help  to  perpetuate  the  remembrance  of 
its  founder. 

With  my  father,  the  apprehension  was  natural  that 
old  age  might  deprive  him  of  his  freshness  and  work- 
ing power.  He  had  not  so  well  resisted  the  effects  of 
time.  Whilst  formerly  he  had  enjoyed  spending  his 
evenings  in  society,  he  now  gradually  withdrew  from 
it ;  he  first  gave  up  going  out,  and  afterwards  limited 
the  reception  of  guests  at  home  to  a  small  circle.  It 
I  was  no  deprivation,  but  a  change.  With  Jacob  this 
was  not  so,  however ;  from  youth  up  somewhat  more 
reserved,  his  habits  remained  unchanged  to  the  end. 
He  worked  all  day,  but  was  not  unwilHng  to  be  inter- 
rupted, and  was  always  ready  and  happy  to  receive 
visitors.  The  course  of  political  events  he  followed 
with  interest.     When  the  newspaper  came,  he  usually 


230  THE   BEOTHEKS   GKIMM. 

laid  his  pen  aside  to  peruse  it  without  delay.  His 
temperament  was  one  of  uniform  cheerfulness.  It  was 
easy  to  give  him  pleasure.  Both  brothers  loved  to 
have  flowers  at  the  window,  and  tended  them  with 
care.  My  father  was  specially  fond  of  the  primrose, 
which  blooms  continuously  and  unfolds  its  leaves  in 
graceful  symmetry ;  while  Jacob  had  a  preference  for 
the  yellow  wallflower  and  heliotrope.  Upon  their 
writing-tables,  which  were  covered  with  a  variety  of 
keepsakes,  they  were  glad  to  have  a  few  fresh  flowers 
in  a  glass.  These  friendly  mementos  at  last  took 
much  room,  but  they  enjoyed  seeing  them  increase, 
and  always  found  place  for  the  new-comers.  Jacob,  in 
his  last  years,  took  great  dehght  in  small  photographic 
portraits.  A  considerable  number  was  soon  collected, 
and  he  lost  no  opportunity  to  add  to  the  store.  He 
brought  everything  that  was  sent  him  over  to  show 
us,  even  books  in  unknown  languages,  from  which  he 
would  read  a  sentence  here  and  there,  laughing  heart- 
ily because  none  of  us  understood  a  word.  He  was 
fond  of  reading  aloud;  not  long  chapters  for  their 
special  eloquence  or  beauty,  but  terse,  pithy  sentences 
which  startled  us.  He  spoke  French  fluently,  and 
when  the  Japanese  embassy,  during  their  visit  to  Ber- 
lin, called  on  him,  addressed  them  in  Dutch.  Most 
moving  and  beautiful  were  his  words  when  on  birth- 
days and  like  occasions  he  gave  the  toast;  it  was 
always  something  unexpected  and  weighted  with  the 
accent  of  sincere  affection. 


THE   BROTHEES   GRIMM.  231 

My  father  needed  repose  for  his  work ;  interruption 
disturbed  him ;  he  thought  everything  had  its  time, 
and  did  not  like  sudden  resolutions.  Jacob,  who,  if  he 
had  a  journey  before  him,  often  resolved  upon  it  only 
the  preceding  night,  and  who  wrote  all  his  books  at 
once  just  as  they  were  to  be  printed,  without  a  fresh 
draft  or  changes,  was  always  willing  to  be  inter- 
rupted at  any  time.  To  pause  in  his  work  for  the  sake 
of  giving  a  bit  of  information  here,  or  to  gather  news 
there,  or  glean  from  strangers  accounts  of  their  work, 
which  he  would  follow  up  with  genuine  interest,  —  all 
this  was  to  him  agreeable  relaxation.  In  later  years 
these  chance  interruptions  were  not  enough ;  my  mother 
and  sister  systematically  enticed  him  away  from  his 
writing-table,  since  if  left  to  himself  he  worked  all  day 
long,  and  then  the  infirmities  of  age  showed  even  in 
him.  Perhaps  he  might  have  been  preserved  to  us  for 
many  years  yet,  if  he  had  consented  to  work  less. 

Toward  the  last,  his  rest  at  night  was  not  always 
unbroken;  he  would  wake  up,  and  could  not  go  to 
sleep  again. 

"  How  beautiful  the  long  summer  days,  hailed  with  joy  by 
birds  and  men !  They  recall  the  spring-time  of  life,  when  the 
hours  drink  in  light  and  flow  slowly  away;  it  is  only  what 
remains  over  that  is  swallowed  up  in  the  gloom  of  winter  and 
old  age.  Now  I  shall  soon  be  seventy-eight ;  and  when  I  lie 
sleepless  in  bed  the  dear,  soft  light  comforts  me,  and  inspires 
thoughts  and  recollections.  Jacob  Grimm." 

June  3,  1862. 


232  THE   BEOTHEES   GRIMM. 

These  words  were  found  written  on  a  little  card  in 
his  pocket-book.  From  his  youth  he  had  a  fondness 
for  gazing  at  the  stars.  In  a  letter  to  Lachmann  he 
complains  that  he  had  lost  the  view  from  his  chamber 
window  of  the  glorious  Pleiades.  As  an  old  man, 
when  he  could  not  sleep,  he  would  sometimes  get  up 
and  go  to  the  window  to  look  at  the  heavens. 

We  had  thought  that  he  might  live  on  thus  for 
many  a  year.  In  the  spring  of  1863,  when  his  brother 
Ludwig  Grimm,  painter  and  professor  in  the  academy 
at  Cassel,  died,  he  said,  "  Now  I  am  the  only  one  left," 
but  without  a  thought  that  his  turn  was  to  come  so 
soon.  When  collecting  what  had  been  written  on  old 
age,  prior  to  rewriting  his  own  essay  on  the  subject, 
he  received  as  a  present  Flouren's  book  Sur  la  Lon- 
gevite,  in  which  the  average  age  of  man  is  computed 
at  one  hundred  years,  he  jokingly  remarked  that  he  in- 
tended to  live  so  long.  That  he  would  sometimes  lie 
down  for  a  while,  or  sitting  at  his  table  rest  his  head 
on  his  folded  arms,  indicated  to  us  rather  the  natural 
need  of  repose  than  any  decline  of  strength ;  for  when 
it  seemed  to  him  essential,  he  could  work  all  day  with- 
out interruption.  Little  did  he  anticipate  himself  that 
he  should  so  soon  be  interrupted  forever !  He  had  still 
much  work  in  view.  He  would  go  on  with  the  Wor- 
terhuch,  a  new  preface  to  the  Mdrchen  was  to  be  writ- 
ten, another  volume  of  the  Weisthumer  published,  for 
which  a  comprehensive  and  far-reaching  introduction 
was  to  be  prepared.     He  had  also  intended  writing  a 


THE   BROTHERS    GRIMM.  233 

book  on  German  habits  and  customs,  a  work  on  Ossian 
lay  in  the  future,  and  probably  plenty  of  other  things 
known  only  to  himself.  His  last  printed  essay  was  a 
criticism  of  the  work  of  Jonckbloet,  about  Eeiahard,  in 
the  Gottinger  Anzciger ;  he  would  next  have  written 
on  Goethe's  correspondence  with  Carl  August.  I  found 
upon  his  table  a  freshly  folded  sheet  with  the  title  of 
the  book  at  the  top.  For  this  end,  he  was  anxious  to 
read  Goethe's  correspondence  with  Frau  von  Steia,  and 
begged  me,  if  I  meant  to  buy  the  book  (as  had  been 
my  intention),  to  do  so  at  once.  The  last  things  he 
read  were  some  leaves  sent  to  him,  of  a  collection  of 
Greek  myths,  which  he  had  looked  through  with  great 
interest,  and  covered  with  pencil-marks.  It  was  his 
habit  to  read  books  as  soon  as  received,  and  he  always 
did  so,  with  pencil  in  hand.  In  this  way  he  has  left 
behind  innumerable  scraps  of  notes  and  citations. 

As  in  my  father's  case,  a  little  autumn  journey  just 
before  his  final  illness  had  seemed  to  be  of  special 
benefit  to  him.  He  caught  cold  soon  after  his  return, 
and  inflammation  of  the  hver  set  in,  which,  however, 
seemed  to  subside.  His  days  were  good,  he  w^as  able 
to  read  for  hours  together  in  bed,  but  his  nights  were 
restless  and  feverish.  The  physician  advised  his  get- 
ting up  a  Httle,  in  the  hope  of  making  the  nights  more 
comfortable.  On  Saturday  afternoon,  when  he  at- 
tempted this  for  the  second  time,  my  sister,  sitting  near 
the  wmdow,  felt  him  falling  against  her.  It  was  apo- 
plexy which  had  struck  the  right  side.     He  passed  into 


234  THE   BEOTHEES   GEIMM. 

a  state  of  drowsiness ;  he  could  move  his  leg  at  mo- 
ments when  awake,  but  his  arm  less  easily,  and  he 
spoke  with  difficulty.  He  often  touched  his  right  arm 
with  his  left,  as  if  to  discover  how  it  was  with  him. 
This  was  through  the  night.  Towards  Sunday  morning 
his  consciousness  apparently  grew  clearer ;  he  turned 
his  eyes  upon  us  all,  and  the  friends  standing  around 
him ;  seemed  to  understand  what  we  said  to  him. 
Once  we  thought  we  had  lost  him,  when  he  suddenly 
took  up  a  photograph  of  William,  brought  it  close 
before  his  eyes,  as  he  was  wont  to  do,  looked  at  it  for 
some  moments,  and  laid  it  down  upon  the  coverlet. 
Sunday,  September  20th,  at  twenty  minutes  past  ten 
in  the  evening  he  drew  his  last  breath.  His  final 
restuig-place  has  been  prepared  beside  his  brother's, 
according  to  his  express  desire. 


BETTINA  VON  ARNIM. 

Bettina  von  Arnim,  according  to  Lewes,  fills  a  larger 
space  in  the  literary  history  of  the  nineteenth  century  than 
any  other  German  woman ;  but  her  works  are  not  greatly  read 
to-day,  and  even  in  her  lifetime  the  distinction  she  won  was 
to  be  attributed,  in  part  certainly,  to  her  altogether  rare 
and  elevated  nature.  Gifts  she  had  indeed,  and  was  both  intel- 
lectual and  accomplished ;  but,  better  still  to  those  who  knew 
her,  she  was  a  very  simbeam  in  the  flesh,  and  gave  not  only 
light,  but  a  spark  of  Promethean  fire,  to  all  who  approached 
her.  Through  a  vsrretched  translation  of  her  principal  work, 
she  appears  to  the  English  reading  public  only  as  the  most  ex- 
aggerated sentimentalist  of  a  sentimental  age,  —  the  Dorcasina 
Sheldon  of  modern  times.  That  this  was  neither  her  character 
nor  style  is  proved  by  the  abmidant  testimony  of  many  talented 
men  still  living,  who  speak  of  a  debt  of  gratitude  to  her  such 
as  they  are  conscious  of  to  no  other.  —  Translator's  Note. 

Bettina  was  born  at  Frankfort-on-the-Main  April 
4tli,  1785.  She  married  Acliin  von  Arnim  1811  in 
Berlin.  "  The  Correspondence  of  Goethe  with  a  Child  " 
appeared  in  1835.  She  died  on  the  20th  of  January, 
1859. 

Her  correspondence  with  Goethe  had  been  preceded 
by  one  with  her  brother  Clemens  Brentano  and  with 
the  Stiftsdame  Caroline  von  Gunderode.  In  these 
three  books  is  contained  the  narrative  of  Bettina's 
childhood  and   youth;   of  these  times  she   gives   the 

235 


236  BETTINA  VON   AKNIM. 

most  graphic  and  pleasing  description.  Her  mother 
was  the  Maximiliane  von  La  Eoche,  whom  Goethe 
pictures  so  charmingly  between  childhood  and  maiden- 
hood, as  she  first  came  to  greet  him  in  her  mother's 
house,  and  whom  he  afterward  held  so  dear  when 
a  young  wife  in  Frankfort.  Maximiliane's  character 
afforded  material  which  completed  his  picture  of  Lotte 
in  the  Sorroivs  of  Werther,  while  her  husband,  Brentano, 
(Bettina's  father)  gave  the  final  emphasis  to  the  uncom- 
fortable Albert  of  the  romance.  She  was  Brentano's 
second  wife,  and  after  her  early  death  his  quickly  fol- 
lowed. Many  brothers  and  sisters,  all  distinguished 
for  beauty  and  wit,  —  and  in  the  idiosyncrasies  of  their 
natures  best  understood  by  one  another,  —  formed  a 
large  and  closely  linked  family  which  attracted  into 
its  circle  a  host  of  dearly  beloved  relations  and  friends. 
The  old  family  mansion  of  the  "  Golden  Head  "  in  the 
Sandgasse  in  Frankfort  was  the  central  home  of  this 
republican  community,  within  which  Bettina's  nature 
unfolded  itself  freely. 

In  a  kind  of  idyllic  narration  of  personal  events 
the  genius  of  Bettina  and  her  brother,  Clemens  Bren- 
tano, shines  forth  most  brilliantly.  An  inexhaustible 
vitality  and  freshness  favored  her  desire  ever  to  behold 
the  world  under  new  aspects.  Bettina  was  never  ill, 
never  ailing,  until  during  the  very  last  years  of  her 
life,  and  not  even  variable,  Hke  most  of  us,  in  temper- 
ament. A  victorious  soul  dwelt  in  her.  She  was 
brimming  over  with  a  happy  confidence   that   things 


BETTIXA   VON   AENIM.  237 

were  taking  the  right  direction.  She  demanded  large 
intercourse  with  people,  and  an  active  participation  in 
important  affairs.  She  was  a  cosmopolite,  and  from 
childhood  accustomed  to  change  of  place.  AVe  find 
her  on  the  Main,  the  Ehine,  in  Bavaria,  Austria,  Thu- 
ringia,  —  always  and  everywhere  surroimded  by  friends 
and  relatives. 

The  scope  which  had  been  allowed  her  as  a  maiden 
Bettina  looked  upon  as  proper  and  essential  to  her 
through  life.  The  future  must  stand  before  her  rich 
in  anticipations  if  she  was  to  be  content.  The  state 
of  society  in  her  day  favored  these  views.  Old  forms 
in  Germany  were  disintegrating.  Fresh  talent  spring- 
ing up  everywhere,  and  not  to  be  diverted  from  its 
proper  channel,  or  monopolized  or  quenched  by  party 
spirit.  Each  pursued  quietly  his  own  path,  while  a 
great  aim  was  common  to  all.  Poetry,  philology,  nat- 
ural sciences,  philosophy,  and  politics  formed  one 
great  sea,  over  which  each  took  his  own  course,  with 
the  sails  of  all  the  others  constantly  in  sight.  The 
yoimg  and  gifted,  heedless  of  the  past,  lived  in  the 
expectation  of  tremendous  events  which  the  next  day 
was  to  bring  forth.  Now,  as  I  read  the  early  letters 
of  my  father  and  uncle,  I  realize  how  all  interest  in 
the  past  had  disappeared,  while  prosperity  and  happi- 
ness seemed  to  He  only  in  the  future.  Bettina  was 
permitted  to  enjoy  an  intimate  friendship  with  the 
noblest  of  those  who  thought  and  worked  in  this 
spirit,  and  she  penetrated  even  iato  the  processes  of 


238  BETTINA  VON  ARNIM. 

their  intellectual  labors.  Both  Goethe's  and  Beetho- 
ven's letters  to  her,  known  to  us  to-day  as  gen- 
uine, prove  how  much  earnestness  they  found  in  her. 
Earnestness  was  the  sign-manual  of  that  day.  Bettina 
possessed  the  power  to  absorb  the  ideas  of  her  epoch, 
and  to  develop  them  in  many  directions.  Her  ac- 
quaintance with  Goethe  was  the  goal  toward  which 
all  her  youthful  efforts  and  strivings  had  tended. 

Bettina  came  to  Berlin  at  the  same  time  with  Sa- 
vigny,  who  had  been  called  to  the  new  university. 
Savigny's  wife  was  Bettina's  sister.  Thither  also  re- 
paired Clemens  Brentano.  He  was  seven  years  older 
than  Bettina,  and  like  herself  had  been  for  years  an 
intimate  friend  of  Achin  von  Arnim.  Among  Arnim's 
letters  to  my  father  and  uncle  the  most  beautiful  cer- 
tainly is  that  in  which  his  marriage  with  Bettina  is 
described.  When  my  father  spoke  of  Von  Arnim,  it 
was  always  in  a  peculiarly  reverent  tone,  as  if  the 
stately  form  of  his  friend  rose  upon  his  inward  sight. 
Goethe  and  Arnim  were  his  most  precious  memories. 
Hallowed  seem  the  great  talents  of  men  who  have 
been  too  early  snatched  from  earth.  There  was  in 
Arnim's  nature  the  all-conquering,  joyous  tone,  which 
distinguished  Bettina,  although  it  found  a  different 
expression.  Bettina  was  a  child  of  the  South,  with 
dark  hair  and  dark  eyes;  she  was  fearless  and  direct, 
and  sought  to  mould  circumstances  to  her  will.  Arnim 
was  of  the  North,  and  more  reserved.  He  was  born 
for  a  country  hfe.     He  was  the  genuine  Prussian  no- 


BETTINA   VON   AENIM.  239 

bleman.  \'\Tiereyer  he  appeared,  I  have  heard  it  said, 
men  felt  that  a  good  spirit  had  come  among  them.  A 
certain  atmosphere  of  distinction  surrounded  him,  and 
a  happy,  soul-stiiTiug  energy,  which  he  communicated 
to  others.  He  was  courteous,  elegant,  handsome,  free, 
brave,  and  single-hearted.  His  style  of  writing  had 
all  these  qualities.  No  greater  contrast  could  be  found 
than  between  his  writings  and  Clemens  Brentano's,  as 
exhibited  in  their  correspondence.  Amim's  name  is 
surrounded  with  a  peculiar  lustre  in  our  literary  his- 
tory, but  his  works  are  not  widely  known,  and  the  best 
things  in  them  have  not  been  winnowed  out. 

When  Bettina  came  to  North  Germany  the  struggle 
with  Napoleon  was  just  beginning,  and  Berlin  was  full 
of  excitement.  Then  came  the  war,  with  its  triumph- 
ant issue ;  but  after  this  elation  passed  away  Germany 
relapsed  into  a  state  of  monotony  and  dreariness,  which 
increased  day  by  day.  Naught  remained  of  the  gigantic 
hopes  which  for  long  years  previous  had  stimulated  the 
people,  and  whose  sure  fulfilment  the  war  for  freedom 
seemed  to  prophesy.  As  early  as  1820  Goethe  spoke 
of  the  "utter  worthlessness  of  the  present." 

Bettina  now  threw  herself  into  her  family  life.  With 
her  children  around  her  she  lived  for  many  years  in 
the  retirement  of  their  country  home.  Of  these  quiet 
years  she  tells  us  little.  The  most  important  event 
which  marked  them  was  her  acquaintance  with  Schlei- 
ermacher,  who  confirmed  her  sons,  and  with  whom  she 
exchanged  letters  full  of  interesting  matter,  which  are 
as  yet  unprinted. 


240  BETTINA  VON  AKNIM. 

Immediately  after  her  marriage  Bettina  had  become 
estranged  from  Goethe.  She  went  to  Weimar  at  that 
time  with  Arnim,  and  displeased  Goethe  by  her  man- 
ner toward  his  wife.  I  have  letters  in  Arnim's  own 
hand  to  Eiemar,  in  which  he  strove  to  gain,  at  least, 
a  meeting  with  Goethe ;  but  Goethe  refused,  the  old 
friendship  was  broken,  and  Bettina  and  Arnim  mourned 
the  loss  bitterly.  It  was  most  natural  that  they  should 
look  forward  to  a  reunion.  In  the  beginning  of  1820 
the  idea  was  seized  upon  in  Frankfort  of  erecting  a 
monument  to  Goethe  in  his  native  city.  In  Boisserel's 
letters,  as  well  as  in  Rauch's  Life  by  Eggers,  we  read 
many  of  the  details  concerning  it.  In  the  last  pages 
of  the  diary  which  forms  the  third  part  of  Corre- 
spondence  ivith  a  Child  Bettina  tells  how  the  sketch 
for  a  monument  to  Goethe  arose  in  her  mind,  which 
she  afterward  took  to  Weimar;  she  would  show  the 
world  how  Goethe  had  appeared  to  her  from  the  begin- 
ning. For  years  she  pursued  this  matter,  into  which 
Arnim  entered  with  a  like  enthusiasm.  In  1831  Ar- 
nim died,  and  in  the  following  year  Goethe.  Chan- 
cellor von  Miiller  returned  to  Bettina  her  letters  found 
among  Goethe's  posthumous  papers.  The  thought  now 
came  over  her  to  erect,  in  her  own  way,  this  monu- 
ment to  Goethe,  which  they  had  not  been  able  to 
execute  in  marble.  Her  sketch  should  find  a  place  on 
the  first  leaf  of  the  Correspondence  with  a  Child,  and 
face  the  title-page  bearing  the  dedication,  "  Seinem 
Denkmale,"  For  his  Monument.     Doubly  bereft,  Bet- 


BETTINA  VON   ARNIM.  241 

tina  found  in  this  work  the  occupation  she  needed. 
Thoughts  of  the  far-off  days  of  youth  awoke  in  her 
soul  as  she  pored  over  the  old  letters.  What  she 
would  have  said  and  written  to  Goethe,  but  never  did, 
and  at  the  same  time  what,  according  to  her  own  con- 
ception, Goethe  might  have  said  in  reply,  should  now 
find  expression.  The  fruits  should  hang  riper  and 
sweeter  on  the  boughs  than  in  her  early  days,  and 
weish  down  the  branches  to  meet  the  hand  which  was 
to  pluck  them.  This  was  the  key-note  to  this  unique 
book  of  which  Meusebach,  in  closing  his  review  of  it, 
said  justly,  that  "  it  would  with  difficulty  escape  im- 
mortality." 

In  recalling  the  days  of  our  youth  Fancy  sits  like 
Penelope  at  the  loom,  drawing  out  of  the  web  the  old 
threads  in  order  to  weave  them  over  anew.  Even  the 
most  exact  memory,  when  gathering  up  and  laying 
together  the  thhigs  which  have  constituted  its  earthly 
experience,  will  join  the  threads  so  as  to  produce  some- 
thing like  a  work  of  art.  Goethe  in  DicUung  and 
Wahrheit  has  acknowledged  the  necessity  and  natural- 
ness of  this  process. 

Let  us  now  consider  what  Bettina's  personal  share 
in  this  work  really  was.  She  had  related  to  Goethe 
the  stories  of  her  childhood,  just  as  her  mother  told 
them,  at  the  same  time  giving  him  her  rendering,  and 
saying  how  she  had  reconstructed  the  legends  to  suit 
her  fancy.  Goethe  received  these  letters  with  delight, 
and  as  we  see  the  use  he  made  of  them,  it  is  quite 


242  BETTINA  VON   ARNIM. 

possible  that  it  was  Bettina  who  first  struck  the  tone 
in  which  he  later  wrote  his  biography.  Certain  it  is 
that  the  desire  to  make  experience  conform  to  what 
"  it  might  have  been  "  moved  Bettina  to  write  this  Cor- 
respondence.  She  never  dreamed  of  any  one's  regard- 
ing this  book,  in  which  Goethe  is  made  the  inspiration 
of  her  young  life,  as  anything  but  a  work  of  art.  She 
freely  confessed  what  she  had  added  to  it,  saying  that 
in  truth  she  had  never  loved  Goethe  passionately. 

We  will  now  pass  on  to  examine  what  Goethe's  real 
letters  to  Bettina  contain,  which  Dr.  Von  Loeper  has 
pubhshed,  so  far  as  they  could  be  obtained,  together 
with  those  to  her  grandmother,  Sophie  von  La  Eoche. 
"Thy  letters,"  Goethe  writes  to  Bettina,  May,  1810, 
just  as  he  was  leaving  for  Carlsbad,  "  travel  with  me 
and  shall  keep  thy  refreshing,  lovely  image  ever  before 
me.  I  do  not  say  more  to  thee,  for  truly  one  can  give 
thee  nothmg,  because  thou  either  takest  or  createst  all 
within  thyself.  Farewell,  and  think  of  me."  The 
letter  was  sealed  with  a  httle  amor,  but  neither  by 
Bettina  nor  Goethe  was  this  symbol  interpreted  seri- 
ously ;  and,  precisely  as  the  letter  stands,  how  much 
of  what  may  be  called  fatherly  love  is  expressed  m 
Goethe's  words,  and  how  much  he  acknowledges  equal- 
ity also.  We  have  at  hand  a  vast  amount  of  material, 
and  can  compare  what  Goethe  said  to  others  in  letters ; 
to  whom,  after  the  times  of  Frau  von  Stein,  has  he 
declared  that  he  could  give  nothing  ?  He  appreciates 
Bettina's  mental  wealth,  and  allows  her  to  feel  the 


BETTINA  VON   AENIM.  243 

closest  affinity  with  him, —  nothing  more.  The  passion 
which  fills  Bettina's  letters  did  not  come  into  play  be- 
tween the  actual  Goethe  and  herself  as  they  met  in 
life,  but  between  the  imaginary  Goethe  and  a  feigned 
Bettina,  later  born. 

We  know  how  Goethe  himself,  in  the  writing  of 
Werther,  was  transported  with  a  passion  for  Lotte, 
which  he  had  long  ceased  to  feel,  —  perhaps  never 
had  felt  so  powerfully  as  he  represents.  He  writes  of 
what  might  have  been.  It  was  almost  a  year,  before, 
free  from  the  reality,  his  poetic  imagination  acquired 
intensity  enough  for  the  romance.  Bettina  had  borne 
these  things  in  her  mind  over  twenty  years  ere  the 
fitting  opportunity  came  to  give  them  expression,  and 
she  was  capable  in  a  far  greater  measure  than  Goethe 
of  transforming  real  experiences  into  myths.  In  fact, 
to  such  an  extent  did  she  possess  this  gift  that  often 
in  the  very  midst  of  events  they  assume  to  her  a  leg- 
endary form.  Her  grandmother,  Sophie  La  Eoche,  had 
given  evidence  of  this  talent  long  before ;  but  she  was 
of  a  passive  nature,  while  Bettina  was  active  and  ac- 
cepted Hfe  bravely,  with  the  power  of  a  sovereign  will 
to  rule  its  accidents.  Granting  that  the  Clemens  of 
Friihlingskranz,  that  her  Gunderode,  her  Frau  Bath, 
and  her  Goethe,  are  fictitious  creations,  what  vigorous 
handhng,  and  what  light  and  shade  these  figures  re- 
ceive in  her  modelling  of  them !  Her  treatment  of 
her  subjects  is  only  a  little  more  daring  than  Goethe's, 
for  Marianne  von  Willemer  complained  to  me  that  an 


244  BETTINA  VON   AENIM. 

element  of  passion  was  subsequently  introduced  into 
the  poems  addressed  to  her  in  the  Divan  which,  in 
reality  had  been  wholly  foreign  to  their  intercourse  on 
both  sides. 

Bettina  was  in  her  fiftieth  year  when  her  book  ap- 
peared. With  a  large  family,  of  which  she  was  the 
light  and  centre,  she  had  been  settled  for  many  years 
in  Berlin,  where  she  was  surrounded  by  a  brilhant  cir- 
cle. Her  renown  came  like  the  reviving  spring  rain 
which  falls  at  night,  and  the  enthusiasm  awakened 
spread  far  and  wide  in  Germany.  It  was  assumed,  as 
a  matter  of  course,  that  this  was  only  her  first  work, 
and  expectation  was  eager  as  to  what  would  follow. 
The  GUnderode  found  a  public  ready  for  it.  This  book 
had  just  appeared  when  my  father  and  uncle  were 
called  to  Berlin  in  1841. 

They  were  both  among  Bettina's  oldest  friends.  I 
myself  from  a  child  had  looked  upon  Bettina  as  a  near 
relative  of  a  superior  order,  —  as  a  kind  of  double  of 
my  mother,  as  my  uncle  Jacob  seemed  of  my  father. 
Without  Bettma's  energetic  assistance  we  should  prob- 
ably never  have  reached  Berlin.  I  considered  her 
house  as  an  annex  to  our  own,  and  saw  her  daily  from 
1841  until  her  death,  except  when  journeys  intervened. 
I  can  never  express  how  much  I  owe  her,  or  find  it 
possible  to  recount  the  wealth  of  new  and  interesting 
matter  I  learned  and  enjoyed  in  her  house. 

The  revolution  of  1848  put  an  end  to  the  glorious 
period  when  a  free  exchange  of  ideas,  through  personal 


BETTINA  VON  AENIM.  245 

intercourse,  gave  the  tone  to  public  opinion  in  Berlin. 
In  truth,  a  censorship  so  strict  and  vigorous  was  main- 
tained as  to  make  it  difficult  to  discuss  things  as 
exhaustively  in  the  public  journals.  Bettina  never 
had  much  to  do  with  newspapers;  what  she  wrote 
appeared  in  book-form.  She  claimed  the  privilege  of 
saying  many  things  forbidden  to  others.  Bettina  and 
Alexander  von  Humboldt  were  the  two  distinguished 
individuals  whose  private  views  determined  the  current 
of  public  opinion.  It  was  believed  that  they  knew 
more  than  others  of  the  brilliant  future  in  preparation, 
and  that  paths  lay  open  to  them  which  were  closed  to 
common  sight.  All  who  wished  to  attain  anything,  or 
who  desired  free  scope,  or  felt  themselves  misunder- 
stood, applied  to  them.  Year  after  year  have  I  seen 
missives  of  this  kind  flood  in  upon  her.  Both  Bettina 
and  Von  Humboldt  had  the  gift  to  suddenly  kindle 
a  spark  in  beings  by  no  means  extraordinary,  which 
raised  them  far  above  their  ordinary  level.  From  her 
youth  Bettma  looked  upon  herself  as  the  natural  coun- 
sellor and  friend  of  the  unfortunate.  Her  letters  give 
proof  of  this.  Sad,  forlorn  people  exercised  magnetic 
power  over  her,  and  she  gave  with  liberal  hand. 

It  was  from  this  proclivity  to  succor  and  sustain 
that  the  poKtical  ideas  arose  and  took  form  which  in 
later  years  dominated  her.  In  this  respect  also  she 
went  back  to  the  thoughts  of  her  youth.  As  a  child 
she  was  almost  contemporary  with  the  French  Eevolu- 
tion,  which  now  in  Germany  (between  ISttO-oO)  was 


246  BETTINA  VON  ARNIM. 

glorified  as  having  been  the  creative  epoch  of  modern 
freedom.  With  holy  awe  these  conflicts  were  once 
more  regarded,  and  men  sighed  for  a  German  Mirabeau. 
What  is  meant  by  "  politics  "  to-day  interested  Bettina 
very  little.  The  emphasis  of  her  work,  in  which  the 
title  was  also  the  dedication,  —  "  This  Book  belongs  to 
the  King,"  —  and  whose  publication  created  the  great- 
est sensation,  did  not  lie  in  anything  which  admitted 
of  being  brought  into  paragraphs. 

In  the  year  1830,  when  the  cholera  first  appeared  in 
Berhn,  Bettina  fearlessly  undertook  the  relief  of  the 
sick  and  the  needy.  From  this  hour  dates  her  sym- 
pathy with  the  people.  Arguing  from  her  personal 
knowledge  of  the  condition  of  the  laboring  classes  in 
Berlin,  who  had  no  work  and  nothing  to  eat,  she  came 
to  regard  the  whole  nation  as  without  political  will  of 
its  own;  as  diseased  and  helpless.  These  were  the 
days  when  it  was  all  the  fashion  to  speak  of  Germany 
as  personified  in  Hamlet.  Bettina's  suggestions  were 
made  from  this  point  of  view.  To-day  this  book  is 
simply  a  testimony  to  her  noble  intentions,  and  shows 
what  radical  confusion  the  want  of  a  healthy  public 
life  caused  among  us.  This  was  the  last  of  her  works 
which  created  any  sensation,  and  with  the  year  1848 
Bettina's  career  in  this  direction  closed.  Her  Dis- 
course with  Demons  scarcely  found  a  public.  Happily 
for  Bettina's  last  years,  this  change  in  public  favor 
came  on  neither  suddenly  nor  in  a  way  to  wound  her, 
nor  even  to  make  her  conscious  that  she  was  no  longer 
indispensable. 


BETTINA  VOX   AENIM.  247 

Many  energetic  natures  find  themselves  in  old  age 
confronted  with  a  new  generation  and  new  conditions, 
which  they  cannot  understand.  They  isolate  them- 
selves, and  turn  aside  with  bitterness  to  live  in  recol- 
lections of  the  past.  Bettina  was  spared  this.  Her 
mind  was  so  rich,  her  interests  so  universal,  that  the 
domain  was  still  large  enough  upon  which  she  could 
draw.  To  the  very  last  she  looked  forvvard  to  new 
events  and  experiences,  eagerly  and  full  of  hope.  She 
was  always  writing.  Next  to  editing  her  own  works, 
those  of  Arnim  claimed  her  care  and  attention. 

Whenever  her  picture  rises  before  me,  I  see  her 
seated  at  her  desk.  Every  letter  of  her  hand-writ- 
ing was  legible,  fully  formed,  and  energetic.  She 
copied  and  recopied  what  did  not  please  her  until 
she  attained  that  grace  and  ease  which  lent  to  all  she 
wrote  its  peculiar  sprightliness  and  fascmation.  Her 
style  in  hastily  written  letters  is  much  more  ponderous 
than  in  her  books.  She  read  uninterruptedly  the  new 
literature  as  well  as  the  classics.  Goethe,  Shakespeare, 
and  the  Greek  tragedians  were  her  favorite  reading. 
The  book  whose  style  she  most  admired  was  Holder- 
lin's  Hyperion.  She  had  cherished  a  predilection  for 
Holderhn  from  her  youth,  and  when  the  new  edition  of 
his  work  by  Schwab  appeared  it  became  a  yet  stronger 
feehng.  From  this  moment  it  was  her  inseparable 
companion.  One  book  lay  on  her  table,  from  which 
she  often  read,  that  I  never  met  elsewhere, — Klinger's 
Observations  and  Tlioughts. 


248  BETTINA  VON  AENIM. 

In  her  early  days  Bettina  drew,  and  cultivated  sucli 
a  keen  eye  for  plastic  art  that  her  criticisms  were 
wholly  to  be  relied  on.  In  later  years  musical  inter- 
ests became  supreme,  together  with  her  literary^  occupa- 
tion. Among  her  compositions,  which  are  no  longer 
known,  that  which  moved  me  most  deeply  was  on 
the  words  of  Faust,  0  schaudre  nicht,  —  a  motive  in  a 
beautiful  violin  concerto  by  Joachim.  In  her  estima- 
tion Beethoven  held  the  highest  place  in  the  musical 
world. 

It  seems  strange  to  me  that,  out  of  Bettina's  mani- 
fold experiences,  scarcely  one  presents  itself  which 
affords  a  complete  illustration  of  what  it  was  to  live 
with  her.  I  have  found  it  impossible  to  give  to  those 
who  did  not  know  her  an  idea  of  her  personahty. 
How  is  one  to  describe  the  power  in  a  being  which 
renders  every  moment  spent  with  them  of  the  richest 
significance;  the  attractive  charm  which  no  one  can 
resist ;  the  gift,  above  all,  of  entering  into  the  feelings 
of  the  young,  of  influencing  and  elevating  them  ?  She 
brought  Hght  to  men,  and  made  them  trustful  and 
happy.  Others  who  knew  her  confess  themselves  as 
little  able  as  myself  to  describe  wherein  lay  this  power 
to  inspire,  and  yet,  Hke  myself,  even  to-day  are  aware  of 
its  magic  potency.  One  might  speak  of  the  affluence 
of  imagery  that  streamed  from  her  lips,  of  her  skill  in 
detecting  new  phases  in  common  things  and  the  like; 
but  these  were  only  secondary,  after  all. 

I  have  found  that  with  natures  of  the  highest  order 


BETTINA  VON   ARNIM.  249 

the  actual  source  of  their  attractive  power  lies  in  their 
clearer  perception  of  the  value  of  existence,  and  that, 
having  ever  present  to  their  souls  the  importance  of 
the  great  thoughts  which  have  been  revealed  to  man- 
kind, they  find  refreshment  in  consecrating  themselves 
to  their  further  interpretation.  It  is  the  supreme  joy 
to  know  ourselves  participatmg,  if  only  in  the  smallest 
measure,  in  these  thoughts.  Hence  in  intercourse  with 
such  natures  we  seem  to  attain  to  it. 

One  recollection  occurs  to  me  oftener  than  any 
other.  In  the  beginning  of  the  year  1850  Bettina 
with  her  family  had  reached  Weimar  on  her  return 
from  a  long  journey.  Thither  I  went  to  meet  them. 
It  was  in  October.  I  found  her  in  "  The  Elephant," 
on  the  market-place,  —  the  old  classic  inn,  —  where 
she  had  taken  possession  of  the  first  Stage.  I  remem- 
ber entering  the  parlor  in  the  twilight,  before  the  lamps 
had  been  brought.  A  variety  of  guests  were  there, 
to  whom  I  was  introduced  without  seeing  them.  There 
was  music,  and  I  heard  for  the  first  time  a  violin  so- 
nata of  Beethoven's,  by  Joachim.  I  sat  quietly  in  my 
corner.  The  delight  of  meeting  once  more  those  with 
whom  I  felt  so  closely  united,  the  softly-stealing,  en- 
trancing music,  transported  me  into  a  new  world. 
Weimar  was  still  the  residence  of  Goethe,  and  his 
spirit  hovered  about  us  there. 

The  next  morning  at  six  o'clock  Bettina  knocked  at 
my  door.  We  went  through  the  park  that  borders 
the  Ilm.     The  rustling  yellow  leaves  of   the  poplars 


250  BETTINA  VON  ARNIM. 

were  glistening  in  tlie  sun's  first  rays,  while  all  be- 
neath still  lay  in  damp  shade.  We  took  the  narrow 
path  which  leads  to  Goethe's  garden-house.  All  was 
solitary.  The  small,  dark  shutters  were  closed,  the 
garden-gate  fast  bolted,  but  near  it  there  was  an  aper- 
ture in  the  hedge,  through  which  we  pressed  into  the 
garden.  The  earth  was  thickly  strown  with  leaves, 
yellow,  red,  brown,  and  all  the  colors  intermingled. 
It  seemed  as  if  no  one  had  been  here  for  ages ;  the 
branches  of  the  trees  had  grown  until  they  hung  low 
over  the  path.  Behind  the  house  stood  a  half-broken 
bench ;  here  we  seated  ourselves.  Under  our  feet  the 
ground  was  paved  with  the  little  erect  river  pebbles, 
between  which  moss  had  sprung  up.  Bettina  said 
that  Goethe  once  told  her  he  had  passed  many  a  night 
here  in  the  open  air,  and  when  he  awoke  how  beauti- 
ful the  stars  appeared  twinkling  through  the  branches 
of  the  trees.  We  then  strolled  through  the  wet,  faded 
grass  about  the  house  until  the  sun  began  to  shine. 
Eoses  and  vines  on  trellises  ran  over  the  chalk-white 
walls,  and  where  the  wooden  frames  no  longer  held 
them  fast  the  vines  drooped  in  clusters  and  hung  down 
as  if  to  detach  themselves  wholly.  We  discovered 
close  to  some  withered  roses  bunches  of  grapes,  with 
rotten  berries  among  them,  as  if  nobody  cared  to  pick 
them.  Bettina  took  some  of  them  in  her  handkerchief. 
I  see  the  vines  still  trembling  in  the  morning  light, 
as  Bettina  grasped  them  and  plucked  the  fruit. 
She  was  at  this  time  not  far  from  seventy  years  of 


BETTINA  VON   ARNIM.  251 

age,  but  in  the  possession  of  her  full  vigor  and  activ- 
ity. She  spoke  of  Goethe  without  the  shghtest  tinge 
of  sadness,  as  is  so  often  the  case  with  old  people 
when  reviewing  the  days  that  are  gone.  The  present, 
which  was  hers,  still  enchanted  her. 

Bettina  saw  in  AVeimar  Steinhiiuser's  colossal  exe- 
cution of  her  monument  to  Goethe,  now  so  unfavor- 
ably placed,  awaiting  the  time  when  it  will  have  a 
better  position.  With  Wichmann's  help  she  had  her- 
self made  the  plaster  model  of  it,  and  among  the 
many  statues  intended  to  glorify  Goethe  Bettina's 
alone  seems  to  me  to  embody  what  he  was  to  his  age 
in  the  second  half  of  his  life.  The  final  execution  of 
the  work  (for  which  the  group  of  Goethe,  with  the 
Genius  at  his  knee  grasping  the  chords  of  his  l}Te, 
was  intended  to  form  only  the  crowning  point)  en- 
grossed Bettina's  thoughts  completely  in  her  last  years. 
Steinhiiuser  came  to  Berlin  and  stayed  at  her  house ; 
where  by  their  united  efforts  the  whole  was  erected. 
A  plaster  model  of  the  statue  stood  in  the  great  hall 
of  her  house,  and  she  constantly  found  something  to 
improve  in  it.  Ever  new  plans  were  formed  to  obtain 
the  means  for  it.  Bettma  listened  to  nothing  with  so 
much  pleasure  as  when  I  pictured  to  her  our  all  going 
to  Eome,  to  watch  the  execution  of  the  monument  in 
ItaHan  marble.  Feeble,  and  no  longer  able  to  walk 
alone,  she  was  many  times  led  up  to  the  work,  and, 
supporting  herself  by  resting  her  hands  on  the  staging 
upon  which  the  model  stood,  she  would  move  slowly 
round  it,  scrutinizing  it  from  all  sides. 


252  BETTINA   VON   ARNIM, 

Beside  this  statue  they  placed  her  coffin  before  it 
was  borne  to  Wiepersdorf,  the  country-seat  of  the  Ar- 
nims.  The  family  had  gone  on  in  advance.  A  heap 
of  laurel-wreaths  and  long  leafy  vines  lay  there,  which 
I  nailed  about  the  casket. 

I  cannot  say  that  I  have  been  conscious,  in  thus 
giving  my  recollections  of  Bettina,  of  intending  to 
write  her  eulogy.  The  feeling  would  have  been  nat- 
ural indeed ;  but,  after  the  flight  of  twenty  years  since 
her  death,  my  glorification  would  come  somewhat  late. 
All  the  more,  because  after  a  period  of  misapprehen- 
sion, something  like  a  true  appreciation  of  her  has 
again  been  awakened,  chiefly  through  Loeper's  short 
hfe  of  her  in  the  German  biographies. 

Like  all  mortals,  Bettina  had  her  weaknesses,  and 
there  would  be  no  reason  why  we  should  be  silent  in 
regard  to  these,  if  anything  decisive  in  her  life  had 
grown  out  of  them.  But  as  they  never  affected  her 
innermost  nature,  we  can  pass  them  over.  All  the 
thoughts  of  her  which  arise  in  me  are  of  a  loving, 
joyous  being.  I  see  her  ever  before  me,  occupied  with 
serious  interests.  Never,  even  for  an  instant,  did  I 
find  her  exercised  about  trifles,  or  for  her  own  selfish 
advantage.  In  this  she  resembled  Goethe,  in  my  eyes, 
whose  every  act  was  determined  by  that  same  bright, 
inward  illumination,  which,  streaming  from  his  own 
soul,  irradiated  everything  around  him. 

Only  of  the  few  spirits  "  elect  precious  "  in  all  ages 
can  this  be  said. 


DANTE, 

AND  THE  RECENT  ITAIjIAN  STRUGGLES. 

I. 

Political  conditions  in  past  epochs  are  often  so 
closely  analogous  to  our  own,  as  to  tempt  a  compari- 
son. History  shows  a  repetition  of  the  stages  of  devel- 
opment ;  things  stride  forward,  and  do  not  fall  back 
into  the  old  ruts,  but  wind  along  in  new  tracks  with 
a  similar  movement. 

Thus  mankind  has  experienced  more  than  once  the 
transfer  of  the  government  from  the  hands  of  narrow- 
minded  aristocracy  into  the  broad  grasp  of  the  masses, 
or  the  rise  of  tyrannical  authority  upon  the  disunion 
of  parties  no  longer  able  to  mamtain  the  balance  of 
power  among  them.  And  individuals  at  the  coming 
on  of  such  revolutions  sometimes  strike  into  devious 
paths ;  a  parallel  may  not  unfrequently  be  drawn  in 
this  respect  between  isolated  characters,  as  between 
nations  separated  by  hundreds  of  years.  Positions  on 
this  chess-board  of  hfe  surprise  us  as  being  almost 
mathematically  analogous,  in  view  of  which  we  forget 
how  differently  here  and  there  the  game  began,  and 
how  very  different  was  its  issue.  It  is  by  comparing 
such  crystallizations  of  events  that  results  are  arrived 
at,  which,  assuming  the  appearance  of  higher  historical 
laws,  not  only  explain  their  own  time,  but  throw  such 

253 


254  DANTE. 

unexpected  light  on  the  dim  and   distant  past  as  to 
persuade  vis  that  we  understand  it. 

To  be  sure,  history,  in  dealing  with  such  compari- 
sons, has  usually  political  ends  in  view ;  yet  it  is  con- 
ceivable that  one  may  labor  to  obtain  such  formulas  of 
universal  development  merely  for  the  sake  of  gaining 
a  just  and  clear  apprehension  of  things.  Historiog- 
raphy is,  after  all,  nothing  but  a  reflection  of  past 
events  in  the  mirror  of  the  present,  and  unconsciously 
even  the  most  impartial  historian  makes  his  own  day 
the  background  for  the  figures  he  wishes  to  introduce. 
Wliy  not  occasionally  bring  out  all  in  clearer  relief,  by 
making  the  past,  or  a  definite  epoch  of  the  past,  the 
background  to  which  our  present  political  excitement 
furnishes  the  front  and  moving  scene.  We  usually 
begin  as  far  back  as  we  can  go,  and  come  gradually  up 
to  our  own  times.  Why  not,  for  once,  reverse  the  pro- 
cess ?  Everything,  that  in  itself  has  real  value  of  any 
kind  admits  of  practical  and  natural  treatment.  Com- 
parisons of  different  epochs,  of  our  day  with  former 
days,  or  former  days  with  our  own,  of  persons,  of 
nations,  or  of  countries  with  one  another,  —  all  this  can 
be  made  instructive  and  serviceable ;  it  is  the  most 
natural  way  to  discover  the  progress  of  humanity,  and 
to  convince  ourselves  of  the  advantages  we  enjoy  in 
the  present.  No  better  illustration  of  the  marvelous 
facihties  for  warfare  nowadays  than  the  contemplation 
of  Ctesar's  campaigns,  or  those  of  a  hero  of  the  Middle 
Ages,  or  even  of  Frederick  the  Great,  with  the  suppo- 


DANTE.  255 

sition  that  they  had  at  their  command  our  present 
highways,  raiboads,  steamboats,  and  all  the  improve- 
ments in  guns  and  cannon. 

But  what  would  be  said  to  an  attempt  to-day  to 
solve  the  question  whether  Frederick  the  Great  would 
have  preferred  rifled  or  smooth-bore  cannon  ?  whether 
Charlemagne  would  have  acknowledged  the  kingdom 
of  Belgium,  or  whether  Frederick  the  Great  would 
have  sworn  allegiance  to  the  present  German  constitu- 
tion ?  Wherein  lies  the  absurdity  of  such  questions  ? 
It  seems  natural,  when  the  Prussian  Liberals  are  point- 
ing to  Frederick's  bold  policy  and  tolerance,  to  retort, 
"  If  you  had  expressed  these  views  to  him  while  living, 
he  would  have  stopped  your  mouths."  "  Quite  right," 
they  answer ;  "  but  he  would  not  do  so  if  he  were  liv- 
ing now."  And  so  the  Liberals  continue  to  quote 
Frederick  as  if  he  were  one  of  them,  while  the  opposite 
party  will  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  king,  who 
truly  was,  in  every  sense,  an  absolute  monarch,  and 
granted  more  privileges  to  his  nobles  and  soldiers  than 
it  would  be  possible  for  any  king  nowadays  to  grant. 

"VMience  these  contradictions?  Under  what  condi- 
tions may  the  political  parties  of  the  present  appeal  to 
the  great  men  of  the  past  ? 

I  have  been  moved  to  put  this  question  by  a  bro- 
chure just  pubhshed  by  professor  Carl  Witte  upon 
Dante,  and  the  Italian  Question  (Halle,  1861),  wherein 
Dante's  name  is  connected  with  the  late  revolution  in 
Italy,  and  the  writer  has  undertaken  to  prove  that  the 


256  DANTE. 

great  poet  and  statesman,  so  far  from  being  in  sympa- 
thy with  it,  would  have  turned  aside  in  disapproval, 
and  regarded  it  as  a  ruinous  change  in  the  destiny  of 
his  country.  Instead  of  hating  the  Germans  he  is 
said  to  have  been  filled  with  love  and  gratitude  toward 
them,  and  to  have  ardently  longed  for  their  rulership ; 
that  he  opposed  the  overthrow  of  existing  things,  and 
that  united  Italy,  as  proclaimed  to-day,  was  a  conception 
which  never  could  have  entered  his  mind,  since  he 
believed  the  only  salvation  for  Italy  was  in  subordinat- 
ing its  different  rulers  under  the  German  or  Eoman 
German  Empire,  That  it  is  to  be  looked  upon,  not 
merely  as  an  error,  but  as  a  conscious  deception,  if  the 
Italian  Liberals,  the  founders  of  the  great  revolution 
just  accomplished,  honor  Dante  as  having  been  its 
source  and  inspiration. 

Our  author  enumerates  the  distinguished  Liberals 
who  had  been  devoted  students  of  Dante :  Mazzini, 
who  published  a  posthumous  work  of  Urgo  Foscolo's 
on  Dante ;  Tommaseo,  the  ex-dictator  of  Venice,  and 
one  of  his  most  gifted  modern  interpreters,  and  others. 
Here  we  have,  in  brief,  the  contents  of  this  little 
volume. 

It  would  naturally  seem  that  whoever  tries  to  draw 
such  conclusions  must  be  inimical  to  the  new  form  of 
Italian  unity.  The  very  subject  involves  it.  But  our 
author  does  not  at  once  reveal  himself  in  this  light, 
and  on  the  contrary  expressly  denies  any  imputation 
of  the  kind  by  his  answer  to  the  question,  in  how  far 


DANTE.  257 

Dante  may  be  referred  to  for  decision  as  to  some  of 
the  perplexing  questions  of  the  day,  by  those  who  have 
given  to  Italy  its  present  form.  He  avoids  passing 
sentence  of  condemnation  on  the  late  proceedings  or 
existing  government ;  objectively,  and  as  a  scholar 
merely  would  he  discuss  the  position  that  in  all  proba- 
bility Dante  would  have  taken  toward  the  recent  move- 
ment. Yet  the  way  in  which  he  carries  out  his  purpose 
can  hardly  be  called  "  objective,"  hence  a  contradiction 
appears  at  the  very  outset  which  deprives  his  treatise 
of  all  clearness  as  to  the  main  question. 

Italian  unity,  he  asserts,  as  Dante  heralded  it,  was  a 
wholly  different  thing  from  that  which  has  been  brought 
about  by  the  revolution  ;  or,  as  he  affirms  in  other 
places,  "  is  now  to  be  achieved  by  right  and  might." 
These  words  clearly  enough  reveal  his  opinion,  how- 
ever much  it  may  have  been  his  intention  to  withhold 
it,  and  this  standpoint  is  maintained  throughout  the 
book.  In  such  a  task  as  he  proposed  to  himself  the 
promise  to  remain  impartial  could  not  be  fulfilled. 
Impartial  we  can  only  be  when  the  things  we  contem- 
plate are  entirely  divorced  from  the  passions  seething 
about  us.  Impartially  might  Dante's  times  be  con- 
sidered, if  we  were  convinced  that  Catholicism,  aris- 
tocracy, imperialism,  and  citizenship  signified  entirely 
different  things  in  the  thirteenth  century  from  what 
we  understand  by  them  in  the  present ;  that  the  fiery 
feuds  between  the  Guelphs  and  Ghibellines,  the  cities 
and  the  nobles,  the  emperor  and  the  pope,  were  burnt- 


258  DANTE. 

out  volcanoes.  But  tlie  moment  they  are  looked  upon 
otherwise,  and  the  question  is  asked  whether  Dante, 
author  of  the  work  on  Monarchy,  could  have  been  the 
friend,  or  possibly  was  the  spiritual  father,  of  the  late 
triumphant  movement,  all  impartiality  is  at  an  end, 
and  it  seems  to  me  it  would  have  been  far  better  to 
confess  this  plainly  than  to  disclaim  what  he  was 
unable  to  conceal. 

For  Dante's  book  on  Monarchy  not  only  contains  no 
word  which  could  lead  us  to  regard  him  as  an  adher- 
ent of  the  present  so-called  legitimate  princes,  but 
really  nothing  in  any  way  apphcable  to  the  present 
state  of  things,  or  from  which  Dante's  attitude  to 
recent  Italian  policy  could  be  argued. 

II. 

The  times  in  which  Dante  lived  were  those,  when, 
after  the  fall  of  the  Hohenstaufens,  who  had  been  the 
last  to  maintain  the  idea  of  a  world-embracing  empire, 
not  an  arm  could  be  found  wielding  the  imperial 
sword  and  ready  for  the  fight. 

But  the  idea  did  not  die  out;  it  was  too  deeply 
rooted.  As  m  our  own  day,  a  genuine  Catholic,  even  if 
he  has  never  had  anything  to  do  with  Eome,  recognizes 
only  one  indivisible  church,  with  its  imperishable  head, 
— the  Pope  of  Eome,  —  so  at  that  time  all  mankuid, 
as  a  state  organism,  considered  the  Eoman  emperor  to 
be  its  head,  —  whether  one  existed  or  not;  and  even 
those  acknowledged  his  divine  right  who  would  not 
obey  his  mandates. 


DANTE.  259 

Men  still  clnng  too  firmly  to  the  spots  which  gave 
them  birth,  and  to  ideas  inherited  from  their  fathers, 
to  part  quickly  with  one  so  firmly  estabhshed  as  that 
of  "  the  Empire."  It  contmued  to  exist  for  centuries, 
long,  long  after  the  actual  substance  of  the  Eoman 
Empire  had  become  either  a  myth  or  a  faint  dying 
echo  of  the  past.  In  those  days  the  ordinary  man 
had  as  little  definite  notion  of  the  import  and  tenor 
of  the  pubUc  hfe  of  which  he  was  a  part,  as  infants  of 
the  property  of  their  parents.  Ancient  laws,  habits, 
and  customs,  dating  from  immemorial  time,  which 
nobody  thought  of  attacking,  were  encountered  every- 
where. The  nations  stood  in  a  kind  of  nebulous  light 
to  each  other,  and  this  atmosphere  of  unreahty  tinted 
all  their  views.  Like  some  grand,  mysterious  power, 
the  emperor  moved  through  the  different  countries, 
always  in  motion,  the  highest  tribunal  wherever  he 
appeared,  and  like  a  distant  sun  irradiatmg  the  whole, 
the  papacy  sat  enthroned  in  Kome,  eternal  and  immu- 
table. 

The  rise  of  cities,  —  that  is  to  say  the  gradual  devel- 
opment and  concentration  of  culture  within  fortified 
walls,  —  formed  the  first  blessed  islands  in  this  sea  of 
pohtical  confusion.  The  dwellers  in  these  cities  soon 
came  to  feel  how  strong  they  were  in  themselves, 
and  how  easily  the  emperor  could  be  dispensed  with. 
The  cities  united  in  friendship  or  made  war  upon  each 
other  without  asking  the  permission  or  arbitration  of 
the   emperor.      And  soon  the   different  nationalities 


260  DANTE. 

grew  more  and  more  conscious  of  being  self-sustained 
corporations ;  conducted  their  wars  independently,  — 
scorning  resort  to  any  higher  authority.  Everywhere 
self-consciousness,  and  a  falling  away  from  the  old 
dogmas.  The  Crusades, — those  grand  repeated  striv- 
ings for  a  common  external  goal,  —  were  to  harmo- 
nize once  more  the  inward  discords.  For  a  time  they 
had  this  effect,  but  finally  only  served  to  add  to  the 
general  disunion.  It  was  from  the  Crusades  that 
Venice  and  Genoa,  —  to  quote  the  two  most  brilliant 
examples,  —  absorbed  into  themselves  the  power  of  in- 
dependence. The  last  of  the  Hohenstaufens  carried  on 
their  wars,  not  to  maintain  their  supremacy  over  other 
nations,  but  as  representatives  of  their  dynasty,  which, 
through  the  possession  of  Naples,  was  able  to  lord  it 
over  Italian  politics.  The  cities,  the  pope,  and  France 
disputed  this  possession.  After  the  fall  of  the  Ho- 
henstaufens, France  entered  Naples  as  victor  in  their 
place.  Germany  resigned  the  grand  role  she  had 
played  in  Europe.  With  her  power  her  culture  also 
waned,  whilst  that  of  the  Eomanic  nations  rose  in 
splendor.  All  the  while,  however,  for  the  state  form 
men  had  before  them  the  old  image  of  an  indivisible, 
overruling  empire,  and  for  this  the  parties  in  Italy 
fought. 

What  men  in  reality  contended  for,  however,  was 
simple  possession.  The  French  party,  the  National, 
the  Guelphs  who  adhered  to  the  Pope  as  being  a  power 
superior  to  the  Emperor,  believed  themselves  absolved 


DANTE.  261 

from  any  recognition  of  rights  or  privileges  which, 
without  the  confirmation  of  the  Church,  were  only 
imperial  feoffs.  The  German  party  (the  Ghibellines) 
held  fast,  or  tried  to  recover,  what  had  sHpped  from 
its  grasp.  It  was  this  which  made  these  conflicts  so 
tedious,  and  in  theory  so  interminable.  It  was  a  strug- 
gle for  existence.  Submission  meant  banishment,  and 
banishment  waiting  for  a  chance  to  return  as  victor. 
And  as  this  state  of  war  and  tumult  lasted  through 
decades,  it  became  the  habitual,  yes  the  normal,  con- 
dition of  Italy.  Everywhere  we  see  two  camps,  with 
changing  fortunes,  as  if  one  half  of  a  ship's  crew  swam 
by  the  side  of  the  vessel,  until  they  found  an  opportu- 
nity to  jump  in  and  throw  the  others  overboard,  who 
now,  in  their  turn,  must  swim  alongside  until  fortune 
favors  them.  So  it  was  with  the  cities.  It  was  not 
simply  the  nobility  as  Ghibellines  opposing  the  citizens 
as  Guelphs,  but  both  parties  split  asunder.  And  as  lack 
of  pubhc  funds,  of  high-roads,  the  want  of  one  leading 
authority,  all  made  a  well-planned  war  impossible; 
isolated  local  skirmishings  took  its  place,  and  camp- 
fires  flared  up  everywhere.  This  unfortunate  condition 
of  things  went  on  in  hopeless  activity  for  centuries,  — 
mere  petty  feuds.  Great  armies,  if  they  did  form,  as 
often  happened,  were  only  a  conglomerate  of  the 
smaller  detachments,  and  without  inward  organiza- 
tion, they  often  vanished  as  suddenly  as  they  had  come 
together.  The  earth  sucked  them  up,  as  it  were.  The 
emperor  to-day  at  the  head  of  a  long  troop,  to-morrow 


262  DANTE. 

had  not  a  single  man.  Each  soldier  made  war  on  his 
own  account,  led  on  to  battle  with  his  own  arm,  and  at 
his  own  cost.  Between  the  firm  rank  and  file  of  the 
nations  to-day  and  those  of  the  old  Eoman  Empire, 
these  centuries  are  a  curious  middle  point  betwixt 
disintegration  and  formation.  Under  just  such  cir- 
cumstances, however,  do  characters  assume  the  most 
distinct  form. 

Florence,  Dante's  home,  was  an  imperial  fief.  To- 
gether with  the  rest  of  Tuscany,  ,the  city  belonged  to 
the  notorious  inheritance  of  the  Countess  Matilda, 
who  bequeathed  her  land  to  the  Church.  The  em- 
perors would  never  acknowledge  the  gift;  the  popes, 
on  the  contrary,  accepted  it,  and  the  contests  went  on 
within  the  city  between  the  nobles  which  adhered  to 
the  Pope  and  those  faithful  to  the  Emperor,  both,  ac- 
cording to  their  own  notions,  entitled  to  rule,  —  that 
is  to  say,  having  the  right  to  drive  each  other  away. 
To  either  party  the  destruction  of  the  opposite  meant 
freedom.  It  was  a  war  in  which  souls  fought  as  well 
as  bodies.  The  Guelphs  tried  to  insist  that  the  Em- 
peror must  obey  the  Pope,  that  the  Pope  was  the 
greater  light,  without  whose  blessed  help  the  Emperor 
had  no  real  authority.  The  GhibeUines  theoretically 
separated  the  two  powers,  and  stood  up  for  the  inde- 
pendence of  the  Imperial  pohcy.  The  Emperor  was 
to  come  and  sustain  them ;  this  was  why  they  so  ar- 
dently longed  for  his  presence.  Dante,  in  his  youth  a 
Guelph,  was  —  it  would  seem  more  through  change  of 


DANTE.  263 

parties  toward  one  another  than  any  sudden  political 
conversion  —  gradually  carried  over  from  a  central  po- 
sition among  the  Guelphs  to  the  other  party,  until  at 
last  he  found  himself  in  the  very  midst  of  the  Ghi- 
bellines.  Passionate  by  nature,  conscious  of  his  own 
power,  and  of  what  service  he  had  already  rendered 
in  fighting  and  by  negotiations,  he  would  continue  to 
labor  for  his  party  as  he  had  always  done ;  his  book 
on  Monarchy  is  one  of  these  efforts.  With  logical 
scientific  acumen  he  vindicates  the  justice  of  his  cause ; 
as  the  substance  of  his  whole  great  poem  is  the  con- 
demnation of  his  poHtical  enemies  and  the  glorification 
of  his  friends.  The  latter  was  written  in  exile,  the 
former,  it  may  be,  in  days  when  he  was  more  tender- 
hearted, and  before  he  had  reached  the  decisive  turning- 
point  in  his  fate. 

III. 

Dante's  work,  entitled  De  ifowarc/im,  is  wrifctQii  ftiK  b  n 
Latin,  and  is  in  three  books.  N^C/JliPORH^^ 

The  first  book  opens  with  proof  of  the  special  ne^^^^^^^^^*^ 
cessity  of  the  Imperial  government.  Dante  founds  it 
on  Aristotle,  Homer,  and  general  philosophic  grounds. 
He  conceives  mankind  as  an  unseparable  whole  need- 
ing a  head.  This  unity  of  the  human  race,  which  he 
assumes  as  prevailing  over  all  distinctions  of  national- 
ity, is  used  in  his  argument  as  an  understood  and 
well-established  fact. 

After  these  philosophic  reasons  he  passes  on  to  the 
religious.     God,  he  says,  being  the  primal  source  of  all 


264  DANTE. 

Good,  the  Good  must  as  far  as  possible  seek  to  be  like 
him.  God  is  one,  "  Hear,  0  Israel,  God  the  Lord  is  one 
God."  God  has  created  man  after  his  own  image,  there- 
fore creation  must  strive  to  be  like  him  also  in  this ; 
under  the  sovereignty  of  a  single  ruler,  the  human 
race  is  most  God-like.  Every  son  must  follow  in 
the  footsteps  of  his  father,  so  also  mankind,  which 
is  the  son  of  heaven. 

Lastly,  the  utility  of  Imperialism  is  made  an  argu- 
ment. Wlienever  a  dispute  arises,  a  decision  must 
be  possible.  Between  two  princes  of  equal  rank,  if  a 
quarrel  breaks  out,  who  is  to  settle  it  ?  There  must  be 
a  third,  standing  higher  than  either,  —  a  Monarch,  or 
Emperor,  whose  word  shall  be  final 

But  nothing  is  so  apt  to  cloud  our  sense  of  justice 
as  selfish  desire.  The  Emperor,  argues  Dante,  alone  is 
free  from  such  temptation;  he  only  has  nothing  left 
to  desire ;  for  are  not  his  possessions  boundless  ?  The 
Emperor  only  can  be  perfectly  candid  and  impartial. 
His  sway  is  one  of  love  and  peace.  All  men  stand 
equally  near  to  his  heart :  under  him  only  is  absolute 
freedom  conceivable. 

Eor  the  source  of  all  freedom  is  in  the  power  to 
determine  one's  own  purposes.  We  first  covet  some- 
thing, seize  it,  then  judge  whether  it  is  good  or  hurtful ; 
and  after  that  either  drop  it,  or  live  and  die  for  it. 
Only  when  our  satisfaction  with  a  thing  springs  from 
the  judgment  we  have  formed  of  it  can  we  be  said  to 
be  free ;  but  if,  on  the  contrary,  our  desire  for  it  has 


DANTE.  265 

led  to  the  judgment,  all  freedom  is  lost.  Hence  only 
the  Emperor's  judgment  is  free;  he  desires  nothing 
because  nothing  is  denied  him. 

On  these  and  many  other  grounds  Dante  explains 
why  monarchy  is  the  most  salutary  form  of  govern- 
ment. It  makes  the  substance  of  the  first  book,  whose 
conclusions  and  final  argument  show  how  very  directly 
the  world  was  based  at  that  time  on  antique  princi- 
ples. Once,  says  Dante,  monarchy  existed  in  its  most 
perfect  form ;  it  was  the  time  under  Augustus,  which 
the  Son  of  God  had  chosen,  or  perhaps  (because  tliis, 
too,  was  in  his  power)  had  shaped  for  his  appear- 
ance. Under  this  emperor  peace  reigned  throughout 
the  entire  globe,  and  the  human  race  was  happy,  as 
Paul  himself  testifies,  calling  the  time  " Blessed."  "In 
truth,"  exclaims  Dante,  time  and  earthly  rulership 
then  arrived  at  its  fulfilment,  and  man  possessed  all 
the  essential  aids  to  happiness.  But  what  vicissitudes 
this  world  has  undergone  since  those  days,  when  the 
seamless  robe  of  the  Saviour  was  first  rent  in  twain  by 
the  hands  of  carnal  passion.  O  that  we  might  read 
of  this  only,  and  not  be  forced  to  witness  it  with 
our  own  eyes !  0  hapless  mortals !  through  what 
storms,  what  tribulations,  what  shipwreck  of  hopes, 
have  you  passed  to  become  this  beast  with  many  heads, 
striving  and  contending  against  each  other,  sick  in 
mind  and  in  soul!  What  care  you  for  the  spiritual 
understanding  of  things  with  their  irrefragable  proofs  ? 
what   for  the   knowledge,  for   the   sweetness,  of  the 


266  DANTE. 

Heavenly  voice  when  through  the  breath  of  the  Holy 
Spirit  the  words  ring  out,  "  Behold  how  good  and  how 
pleasant  it  is  for  brethren  to  dwell  together  in  unity." 

In  these  words  from  the  translation  of  the  second 
book,  which  treats  of  the  legitimate  right  of  the  Eoman 
people  to  the  sovereignty,  Dante  explains  the  mean- 
ing of  the  Law  or  the  Eight.  It  is  the  will  of  God  in 
its  earthly  manifestation !  What  runs  counter  to  this 
cannot  be  Eight,  since  only  what  happens  among 
men  by  his  will  is  Eight.  Now  God's  will  is  in  itself 
invisible,  but  it  may  be  recognized  in  temporal  ajffairs ; 
hidden  and  concealed  from  us  is  the  seal,  the  impres- 
sion only  is  perceptible  ;  therefore  we  must  seek  for  the 
tokens  which  reveal  the  imprint  of  this  mystic  ring. 

The  first  proof  that  the  Eoman  people  gained  the 
rulership  over  the  earth  by  right,  that  is  by  the  will  of 
God,  Dante  sees  in  an  inward  quality  of  the  nation. 
Nohilissimo  populo  convenit  omnibus  aliis  jprceferri, — 
"The  foremost  place  belongs  to  the  noblest  people." 
The  Eomans  were  the  noblest,  therefore  entitled  to  the 
first  rank.  For,  since  honor  is  the  reward  of  virtue 
and  bravery  {virtus),  and  since  every  preference  is  an 
honor,  preference  is  the  reward  of  virtue ;  and  now 
begins  the  praise  of  the  Eoman  people,  its  nobility,  its 
antiquity,  ^neas,  the  glorious  king,  was  its  progenitor, 
as  the  godlike  poet  Virgil  has  immortally  engraven 
on  our  memories.  Livy  also  testifies  to  this.  But 
the  nobihty  that  dwelt  within  this  invidissimo  et  piis- 
simo  patri,  ^neas,  is  proved  not  only  by  his  own  supe- 


DANTE.  267 

riority,  but  also  by  the  advantages  transmitted  to  him 
from  his  ancestors  and  bestowed  upon  him  by  his 
wives.  The  passages  in  Virgil  are  now  quoted  in 
which  ^neas's  nobility  shines  forth.  It  is  curious 
how  Dante,  according  to  the  views  of  his  time,  sub- 
stantiates, through  the  different  marriages  of  his  hero, 
his  claims  to  universal  sovereignty.  Through  Creusa, 
Priam's  daughter,  his  first  wife,  he  won  a  claim  to 
Asia;  through  Dido,  his  second,  to  Africa;  through 
Lavinia,  his  third  (who  was  bom  in  Italy,  the 
noblest  country  in  Europe),  the  right  to  Europe. 
Summa  summarum  ^neas  won  by  his  three  wives 
for  the  Eoman  people,  to  whom  he  bequeathed  all 
that  was  his, — a  claim  to  the  sovereignty  of  the  world. 
Fortunately  Australia  and  America  were  unknown  at 
that  time ! 

On  Virgil's  testimony  Dante  points  to  the  direct 
leading  of  God  in  history.  The  mission  of  the  Eoman 
people  could  only  be  sustained  by  miracles.  But  these 
miracles  took  place  and  manifested  the  will  of  God; 
thus  establishing  the  lawful  claims  of  the  Romans  to 
supremacy. 

And  first  the  wondrous  shield  which  under  King 
Numa  fell  down  from  the  clouds;  then  Eome  saved 
by  the  geese  of  the  capitol ;  after  that  the  hail,  which 
prevented  Hannibal  from  pursuing  the  Eomans,  ripe 
for  destruction;  finally,  ClceHa's  flight. 

Dante  closes  with  finding  still  another  proof  in  the 
political  conduct  of  the  Eomans.     "  He  who  has  the 


268  DANTE. 

public  welfare  in  view  "  (homim  rei  piibliece),  thus  begins 
the  fifth  chapter  of  the  second  book,  "  will  also  have 
in  view  the  carrying  out  of  the  Law.  Law  defines 
the  personal  and  outward  relations  of  man  to  man: 
where  these  relations  are  cared  for  and  prescribed,  the 
human  race  is  benefited ;  where  they  are  neglected  or 
violated,  the  opposite.  If,  now,  the  end  and  aim  of 
society  is  the  general  good  of  all  its  members,  then  the 
aim  of  the  Law  must  be  the  common  weal.  He  who 
cares  for  the  good  of  the  state  desires  the  fulfilment  of 
the  Law ;  and  that  the  Eoman  people  in  subjugating 
the  whole  earth  had  this  in  view  is  plain  from  all 
their  deeds,  by  which  we  see  that  this  holy,  pious,  and 
glorious  people,  disregarding  all  selfish  aims,  actuated 
solely  by  a  desire  for  universal  peace  and  happmess, 
really  created  it  for  the  human  family,  and  therefore 
it  may  with  truth  be  said  that  Eoman  supremacy 
sprang  from  the  fountain  of  piety."  It  reads  like  a 
French  manifesto. 

Dante,  however,  does  not  make  this  assertion  with- 
out authority.  Cicero's  De  OJiciis  is  quoted.  "So 
long,"  he  writes,  "  as  the  rule  of  the  republic  was  dis- 
tinguished by  benefits,  and  not  by  injuries,  the  wars, 
whether  for  ourselves  or  our  allies,  ended  in  a  concili- 
atory spirit.  The  Roman  senate  was  the  refuge  alike 
for  kings  and  people.  Our  generals  and  magistrates 
made  it  their  pride,  faithfully  and  conscientiously,  to 
defend  the  lands  and  provinces  of  our  allies.  Our  im- 
perial government  should  have  been  called  the  'pro tec- 


D.VNTE.  269 

tor  of  the  world '  rather  than  the  '  sovereign  ruler  of 
the  world.'  Cincinnatus,  Fabricius,  and  Cornelius  are 
named  as  brilliant  examples ;  Brutus  sacrificing  his  son, 
Mucins  Sca3vola,  and  Cato.  Taking  it  for  granted,  then, 
that  the  Eomans  on  subjugating  the  earth  had  the 
Law  at  heart,  it  follows  that  whoever  has  the  Law  at 
heart  also  carries  out  the  Law ;  therefore,  that  Eome 
by  Law  has  gained  her  dominion,  and  that  this  conclu- 
sion must  be  looked  upon  and  maintained  as  arising 
from  the  very  nature  of  the  case. 

The  proof  that  the  Eoman  people  were  predestined 
by  nature  to  rule  continues.  "  It  is  clear,"  says  Dante, 
"  that  in  organizing  a  state,  not  only  the  rank  of  the 
members  is  to  be  taken  into  consideration,  but  their 
fitness  for  office  as  well.  With  similar  foresight  nature 
proceeds;  she  arranges  things  according  to  the  measure 
of  their  special  fitness.  Hence  it  follows  that  this 
natural  arrangement  is  according  to  Law,  and  that 
what  has  been  determined  by  nature  is  lawful,  conse- 
quently after  God's  will." 

Further  proofs  of  this !  As  he  would  be  imperfect 
in  his  art  who  considered  only  the  final  form,  leaving 
out  of  sight  the  means  by  which  to  represent  this  form, 
so  nature  would  fall  short  of  full  accompHshment  if 
in  producing  the  general  form  of  the  godhke  she 
neglected  to  give  us  the  means  by  which  to  attain  it. 
Nature,  however,  is  imperfect  in  nothing.  Accord- 
ingly she  has  in  view  the  means  to  her  end,  and  not 
the  end  alone :  in  short,  Italy  is  the  fittest  land,  the 


270  DANTE. 

Homans  the  fittest  people;  their  rule,  ordained  by 
nature,  consequently  justified,  and  in  as  far  as  this 
rule  is  maintained,  the  will  of  God  is  fulfilled. 

All  these,  says  Dante,  are  the  revealed  proofs  of 
God's  will.  He  will  now  tell  us  what  are  God's  hid- 
den decrees,  some  of  which  are  to  be  understood  at 
once,  whilst  others  we  can  only  arrive  at  by  faith  and 
a  study  of  the  Holy  Scriptures.  For  as  no  one,  even 
the  most  excellent,  can  be  redeemed  without  faith  in 
Christ,  so  no  one  is  able  to  discern  "  the  law  "  without 
it.  Impossihile  sine  fide  placere  Deo,  is  written  m  He- 
brews. "We  read  in  Leviticus :  "  What  man  soever 
there  be  of  the  house  of  Israel  that  killeth  one  ox,  or 
lamb,  or  goat  in  the  camp,  or  that  killeth  it  out  of  the 
camp,  and  bringeth  it  not  unto  the  door  of  the  tab- 
ernacle of  the  Lord  as  an  offering  unto  the  Lord, 
is  guilty  of  blood."  By  this  door  of  the  tabernacle  is 
here  meant  Christ,  as  the  entrance  to  the  heavenly 
kingdom;  and  by  the  killing  of  the  animals,  the  deeds 
of  men.  This  is  clear;  but  the  secret  decrees  of  God 
are  only  revealed  by  special  grace,  either  freely  vouch- 
safed or  in  answer  to  prayer.  By  a  variety  of  tests, 
however,  this  knowledge  may  sometimes  be  arrived  at, 
as  by  casting  lots  or  by  competitive  strifes,  which  are 
of  two  kinds,  —  the  duel,  and  that  in  which  'several 
contend  for  the  same  aim. 

The  first  duel  of  which  we  hear  was  that  of  Her- 
cules with  Antseus  ;  and  the  first  race  or  match  be- 
tween Atalanta  and  Hippolytus.     By  the  judgment  of 


DANTE.  271 

God  the  victor  conquered.  The  Romans  conquered  all 
other  nations,  therefore  God  had  so  ordained  it,  who 
allowed  the  destruction  of  single  small  parts  that  his 
one  great  purpose  might  be  fulfilled.  Many  other 
nations  had  set  out  with  the  idea  as  the  Eomans,  but 
they  alone  reached  the  goal. 

Ninus,  king  of  AssjTia,  was  the  first  to  strive  for 
universal  rulership.  He  subdued  Asia.  Dante  states 
this  on  the  authority  of  Ovid  and  Orosius.  The  sec- 
ond was  Vesoges,  kmg  of  Egypt ;  the  third,  Cyrus ;  the 
fourth,  Xerxes;  and  the  fifth,  Alexander.  We  here 
read  a  new  account  of  Alexander's  death ;  he  demands 
the  submission  of  the  Eomans,  but  before  receiving 
their  answer  suddenly  dies.  The  mere  collision  with 
this  chosen  people  destroys  him.  Sixthly  and  lastly 
come  the  Romans ;  the  whole  earth  obeys  them  ;  their 
claims  are  of  divine  origin. 

In  like  manner  the  duel  is  cited  as  a  vehicle  by 
which  the  Divine  will  is  made  manifest.  The  duel  of 
^neas  and  Turnus  is  the  oldest  on  record,  and  its 
issue  affected  all  Europe.  Scipio's  fight  with  Hannibal 
is  explained  to  have  been  a  duel  en  masse ;  by  means 
of  which  the  sway  over  Africa  was  gained.  But  why 
all  these  proofs  ?  It  was  Christ's  will,  as  St.  Luke 
testifies,  to  be  born  under  a  decree  of  the  Roman 
emperor.  Christ  himself  recognizes  through  this  the 
lawfulness  of  the  decree.  But  since  only  a  lawful 
ruler  can  issue  a  valid  decree,  Augustus  was  this  law- 
ful emperor. 


272  DANTE. 

And  further,  Christ  died  to  redeem  mankind  from 
the  eternal  punishment  entailed  upon  us  in  conse- 
quence of  the  first  sin.  Dying  he  said  to  John,  "  It 
is  finished."  This  consummatum  est  signifies  there  is 
nothing  left  to  do.  In  that  He  suffered  punishment 
without  guilt  was  the  redemption  complete.  Had  this 
punishment  been  decreed  by  one  not  authorized  to 
pronounce  such  sentence,  it  would  have  been  simply  a 
wrong  inflicted  upon  him,  and  not  the  just  punish- 
ment of  sin ;  and  our  sins,  from  which  we  are  redeemed 
through  the  punishment  of  His  innocent  body,  would 
have  had  no  just  atonement,  and  our  salvation  could 
not  have  been  secured.  But  if  our  salvation  is  a 
truth,  and  Christ's  words,  "It  is  finished,"  a  truth, 
then  must  also  the  judge  who  condemned  him  to  the 
cross  have  been  lawfully  invested  with  his  office.  This 
judge  was  Pilate,  chosen  by  Tiberius,  and  Tiberius 
governed  as  legitimate  emperor,  and  according  to  God's 
will. 

Nevertheless,  both  he  and  the  Eoman  people  were 
innocent  of  the  death  of  Christ,  for  Herod  was  by  no 
means  vice-regent  of  the  Eoman  emperor  or  senate, 
but  installed  by  Tiberius  as  an  independent  king, 
who  alone  had  to  bear  the  responsibihty  of  his  deeds. 
Therefore,  continues  Dante,  those  of  us  who  call  our- 
selves "  Sons  of  the  Church,"  should  abstain  in  future 
from  casting  unjust  reproaches  on  the  authority  of 
the  empire,  seeing  that  Christ,  the  bridegroom  of  the 
Church,  recognizes   it  in   life  and  death.     He  closes 


DANTE.  273 

the  second  book  with  these  words :  "  I  believe  to  have 
clearly  enough  proved  that  the  Komans  gained  right- 
fully their  sovereignty  over  the  earth."  "0  happy 
people!"  he  exclaims;  "0  glorious  Italy!  0  would 
that  he  had  never  been  bom  who  weakened  thy  power, 
or  would  that,  at  least,  the  pious  intention  which  he 
thought  he  was  fulfilling  had  not  led  him  into  such 
delusions  ! "  The  third  book  teaches  us  what  these 
words  mean. 

If  Dante,  a  man  holding  some  of  the  highest  offices 
in  the  state,  far  more  learned  than  most  of  his  con- 
temporaries,—  truthful  by  nature,  frank  almost  to 
harshness,  a  declared  enemy  to  aU  the  lying  tricks  by 
wliich  the  papal  party  sought  to  establish  its  claims, 
with  a  clear  logical  brain,  could  stiU  forge  together 
such  a  mass  of  fantastic  proofs,  what  must  have  been 
the  confusion  in  the  fanatical  minds  of  the  great  mass 
of  the  people  ?  Criticism  of  original  sources  was  an  idea 
which  at  that  time  had  scarcely  entered  into  anybody's 
thoughts.  What  the  old  authors  had  wiitten  was  not 
questioned.  They  might  be  church-fathers,  heathen 
philosophers,  or  poets,  and  their  works  legends,  history, 
poetry,  or  philosophy ;  men  accepted  them  as  a  great 
whole,  to  which  they  gave  an  artificial  organization 
and  inner  connection,  thus  gaining  serviceable  material 
which  they  made  use  of  with  implicit  faith.  Here  we 
find  Old  Testament  characters  in  closest  family  con- 
nection with  those  of  Greek  mythology;  Eoman  and 
Greek  history  interwoven  with  the  romances  of  the 


274  DANTE. 

people  and  their  legends ;  the  gaps  of  centuries  over- 
leaped; chronology  unknown;  yet  all  this  accepted 
with  a  wholesale  confidence,  such  as  is  hardly  accorded 
to  the  most  authentic  narrations  nowadays.  Dante 
appears  utterly  to  forget  that  Augustus  and  Tiberius 
were  not  Christians.  This  fact  vanishes  before  the 
dazzhng  truth  that  they  were  the  rightful  emperors 
over  the  rightful  people.  Not  a  word  of  the  Jews, 
who  surely  reckoned  themselves  of  some  distinction 
too.  There  is  only  the  one  chosen  people,  the  Komans ; 
only  the  one  country,  Italy ;  only  the  one  city,  Eome ; 
all  the  others  subordinate.  But  we  must  not  forget 
that  men  in  Dante's  times  did  not  see  beyond  the 
geographical  horizon  of  the  ancient  Eomans,  and  that 
as  Italy  was  the  centre  of  the  earth,  so  the  earth  was 
still  the  stationary  centre  of  the  universe  around  which 
the  rest  of  the  solar  system  revolved. 

The  third  and  last  book  of  the  Monarchy  treats  of 
the  pope.  One  question,  it  begins,  is  yet  to  be  han- 
dled, of  which  to  speak  truthfully  may  cause  some  to 
blush,  and  possibly  awaken  indignation  against  me. 
It  concerns  the  two  great  lights,  the  Koman  High 
Priest,  "  Pontifex  Eomanus,"  and  the  highest  temporal 
ruler,  "  Princeps  Ptomanus,"  the  question  whether  the 
power  of  the  Eoinan  emperor  be  derived  immediately 
from  God,  or  from  his  vicegerent  or  messenger,  —  that 
is,  from  Peter's  successor,  who  holds  in  his  hand  the 
keys  of  the  heavenly  kingdom. 

To  decide  this,  Dante  again  starts  with  a  principle 


DANTE.  275 

from  which  he  evolves  his  arguments.  God  cannot 
wish  what  is  contrary  to  nature.  He  then  discusses  the 
difficulties  which  beset  the  treatment  of  this  question. 
In  general  he  says,  disputes  arise  from  ignorance,  but 
in  this  case  ignorance  grows  out  of  the  dispute.  Men 
do  not  see,  or  will  not  confess,  that  they  are  bhnd. 
Three  sorts  of  people  are  here  opposed  to  the  find- 
ing out  of  the  truth,  and  prevent  it.  First,  the  pope 
himself,  Christ's  vicegerent  and  Peter's  successor  (to 
whom  we  owe  merely  what  we  owe  to  Peter,  not  what 
we  owe  to  Christ),  and  with  him  other  shepherds  of 
the  Christian  fold,  who  are  opposed  to  the  truth  out 
of  blind  zeal,  and  not,  as  Dante  wilHngly  admits,  out  of 
pride  and  arrogance.  Secondly,  those  in  whom  the 
light  of  reason  has  been  extinguished  by  persistent 
cupidity,  who  call  themselves  "  children  of  the  church," 
though  the  Devil  himself  is  their  father ;  to  them  the 
very  name  of  the  most  Holy  Empire  is  an  abomination, 
and  they  deny  in  the  most  barefaced  manner  the  prin- 
ciples on  which  this  and  the  foregoing  questions  are 
based.  Thirdly,  those  who  are  called  "  Decretalists," 
who,  without  any  theory  or  knowledge  of  philosophy, 
rely  wholly  on  their  certainly  venerable  Decretals,  and 
because  of  them  insist  on  ascendency  of  the  Church 
over  the  Empire. 

This  was  the  party  of  the  Guelphs,  the  pope  at 
their  head.  They  refused  to  hear  of  Imperiahsm,  or 
to  enter  into  any  discussion  regarding  it.  When  they 
required  the  sanction  of  Law  they  brought  forward 


276  DANTE. 

the  Decretals.  These  they  say  are  the  fundament  on 
which  the  Church  rests. 

Dante  disposes  of  them  very  briefly.  The  Decretals, 
or  Traditions,  came  into  life  long  after  the  Church  was 
founded ;  how,  then,  can  she  be  said  to  rest  on  them  ? 
How  can  Decretals  which  derive  their  authority  from 
the  Church  invest  the  Church  itself  with  authority  ? 
He  then  goes  on  to  deny  the  symbolic  interpretation 
of  the  creation  of  the  moon  and  sun ;  both  were  respec- 
tively for  the  benefit  of  mankind ;  yet  moon  and  sun 
were  created  on  the  fourth  day,  man  himself  not  until 
the  sixth ;  would  God  have  sent  mto  the  world  a  mere 
accessory  of  man,  before  creating  man  himself?  Be- 
sides the  two  supremacies,  the  imperial  and  the  papal 
were  only  corrective  means  for  human  sinfulness,  and 
since  on  the  fourth  day  man  was  not  yet  a  sinner 
because  he  did  not  yet  exist,  how  could  God  apply  the 
remedy  before  there  had  been  any  hurt  ?  Therefore 
it  is  impossible  that  Moses  could  have  meant  to  give 
this  meaning  to  the  creation  of  the  moon  and  sun. 

But,  granted  that  it  were  so,  is  the  moon  because 
she  receives  her  light  from  the  sun  therefore  a  part  of 
the  sun  ?  It  is  only  a  single  property  of  the  moon 
which  is  derived  from  the  sun ;  beside  her  borrowed 
light  she  possesses  her  own  light,  as  is  clearly  proved 
by  an  eclipse  of  the  sun ;  it  is  an  increase  of  light 
which  she  owes  to  the  sun ;  as  to  be  sure  the  Em- 
peror owes  to  the  benediction  of  the  Pope. 

Dante  hereupon  refutes  other  passages  from  which 


DANTE.  277 

the  supremacy  of  the  Church  over  the  empire  had 
been  deduced.  I  omit  these,  to"  us  mere  theological 
subtleties,  and  come  to  what  he  has  to  say  about  the 
donation  of  Constantine,  who,  after  being  cured  of  lep- 
rosy by  Pope  Sylvester,  gave  to  the  Church  the  city 
of  Eome,  and  more  too.  The  bequest  by  the  Countess 
Matilda  is  not  mentioned  by  Dante,  and  in  regard 
to  Constantine's  donation,  he  says  that  this  must  be 
looked  upon  as  an  act  violatiag  the  idea  of  an  all- 
embracing  empire,  and  for  this  reason  bearing  on  its 
very  surface  the  stamp  of  incredibihty.  The  Emperor 
had  no  right  to  give,  nor  the  Church  to  accept,  worldly 
possessions. 

Following  out  this  principle,  he  declares  that  Charles 
the  Great  could  never  have  made  a  gift  of  the  kind 
ascribed  to  him  to  Pope  Hadrian.  On  the  other  hand, 
would  anybody  deny  that  Otto  deposed  Pope  Benedict 
and  reinstated  Pope  Leo  ?  The  Empire,  having  existed 
before  the  Church,  could  only  have  derived  its  power 
from  God  himself.  The  unanimous  will  of  mankind 
could  never  have  invested  the  Church  with  supremacy, 
for  we  nowhere  find  traces  of  any  such  transfer  of 
the  supreme  rulership.  Christ,  whose  earthly  career 
is  symbolized  in  the  life  of  the  Church,  said  to  Peter, 
"My  kingdom  is  not  of  this  world;  if  my  kingdom 
were  of  this  world,  then  would  my  servants  fight  that 
I  should  not  be  delivered  to  the  Jews."  Man  is  formed 
of  body  and  soul,  each  having  its  prescribed  end  and 
aim,  each  exposed  to  corruption ;    for  both   God   has 


278  DANTE. 

provided  leaders ;  the  Pope  is  to  lead  the  soul  to  eter- 
nal blessedness,  the  Emperor,  to  earthly  prosperity; 
the  former  according  to  the  teachings  of  Scripture,  the 
latter  according  to  the  measure  of  worldly  wisdom ; 
and  because  to  the  attainment  of  both  repose  and  peace 
are  essential,  to  insure  these  must  be  the  highest 
striving  of  the  Pope  and  the  Emperor.  Nevertheless, 
so  closes  Dante,  the  separation  of  the  two  powers  must 
not  be  conceived  too  strictly,  since  earthly  happiness 
has  in  a  measure  been  granted  only  for  the  sake  of 
the  heavenly ;  therefore  the  Emperor  must  approach  the 
Pope  with  a  reverence  such  as  the  eldest  son  should 
cherish  toward  his  father,  that,  cheered  by  the  light  of 
paternal  favor,  his  reign  may  be  so  much  the  more 
glorious  ;  for  he  alone  has  been  ordained  to  govern  the 
earth,  and  we  must  revere  him  as  being  in  all  tem- 
poral and  spiritual  affairs  the  supreme  disposer.  This 
exhausts,  it  seems  to  me,  the  contents  of  his  work  on 
Monarchy.  We  do  not  know  when  Dante  wrote  it, 
whether  in  the  days  when  he  was  lingering  in  Flor- 
ence awaiting  the  advent  of  a  German  emperor,  still 
far  in  the  distance  ;  or  later,  when  Henry  of  Luxem- 
bourg had  appeared,  and  the  Ghibellines  demanded  of 
him  the  fulfilment  of  their  hopes. 

IV. 

In  Karl  Witte's  essay  the  general  complaint  against 
the  Italian  liberals  is  summed  up  under  three  heads. 
In  the  first  place,  they  must  not  pretend  to  derive  from 


DANTE.  279 

Dante  their  burning  love  for  Italy  as  a  united  country ; 
secondly,  their  antipathy  to  foreigners,  especially  Ger- 
mans ;  thirdly,  their  opposition  to  the  temporal  power 
of  the  Pope.  These  three  are  represented  as  the  creed 
of  the  Italian  revolutionary  party,  who  in  their  en- 
thusiasm for  Dante  turn  back  to  him  as  the  earliest 
authority  for  these  principles. 

Let  us  begin  with  the  Papal  States. 

Dante  in  the  Monarchy  declares  himself  opposed  to 
the  Church's  having  worldly  possessions.  By  the  fol- 
lowing train  of  arguments  our  essayist  now  tries  to 
undermine  his  authority.  "Even  assuming  that  our 
veneration  for  the  poet  of  the  Divina  Commcdia  was 
great  enough  to  prevent  us  from  disagreeing  in  the 
slightest  degree  with  his  manner  of  thinking,  we  still 
could  not  carry  our  idolatry  so  far  as  to  make  his 
words  our  standard  of  judgment  for  the  present  condi- 
tion of  things,  however  true  and  reasonable  they  were 
five  hundred  years  ago." 

"  We  should,"  he  continues,  "  be  guilty  of  an  injus- 
tice towards  Italy,  were  we  to  identify  the  position  of 
arbiter  and  imperial  protector  of  the  whole  peninsula, 
and  indeed  of  Catholic  Christendom,  which  the  old 
emperors  enjoyed,  with  the  possession  merely  of  a  small 
Italian  territory,  which  has  reduced  the  power  of  the 
Austrian  emperor  to  a  level  with  that  of  the  other 
Italian  princes,  and  involves  him  in  their  quarrels 
simply  as  a  partisan.^     All  this  is  correct ;  and  were 

1  This  sketch  of  Dante  in  political  life  was  first  published  by 
Professor  Grimm,  in  Berlin,  in  1861. 


280  DANTE. 

tlie  writer  to  conclude,  therefore,  that,  because  the  cir- 
cumstances differed  so  wholly,  it  would  not  answer  to 
quote  Dante  to-day.  No  objection  could  be  made 
when  he  adds  in  conclusion :  "  Still  greater,  perhaps, 
would  be  the  wrong  done  to  the  temporal  power  of  the 
Pope,  if  we  were  to  make  the  views  of  the  fourteenth 
century  our  standard  to-day." 

But  the  remainder  of  the  essay  does  not  coincide 
with  these  apparently  fair  and  impartial  utterances. 
If  Dante  actually  stands  so  entirely  out  of  relation  to 
the  politics  of  to-day,  why  does  the  writer  try  to  define 
what  his  attitude  would  have  been  toward  them? 
What  right  has  he  to  affirm  that  Dante  would  surely 
have  been  opposed  to  the  present  monarchy  ?  Accord- 
ing to  his  own  showing,  he  has  no  more  right  to  make 
this  assertion  than  the  Italian  Liberals  to  make  theirs ; 
—  nay,  had  he  begun  with  these  words,  there  would 
have  been  nothing  further  to  say,  for  they  entirely 
exhaust  the  subject  as  given  on  the  title-page. 

But  as  it  is,  he  is  only  disposed  to  use  this  kind  of 
logic  with  regard  to  the  single  question  of  the  Papal 
States,  and  it  is  exactly  here  that  I  maintain  this  logic 
is  out  of  place.  In  taking  the  pains  to  prove  Constan- 
tine's  donation  illegal,  Dante  does  seem  antiquated 
indeed  !  The  Church  has  long  since  dropped  this  argu- 
ment altogether.  It  is  a  matter  of  fact  that  in  the  six- 
teenth century  the  Papal  States  were  brought  together 
by  all  sorts  of  manoeuvres,  which  even  the  most  en- 
thusiastic  CathoHcs   acknowledge  were,  in  part,  con- 


DANTE. 


temptible  enough.  But  when  Dante  argues  against 
the  political  sovereignty  of  the  Church,  with  reasons 
deduced  from  the  nature  of  Eoman  Cathohcism  and 
the  simple  words  of  the  Gospel,  he  may  yet  be  quoted, 
and  contiaue  to  be,  so  long  as  the  States  of  the  Church 
exist.  For  there  are  certain  general  views  of  human 
relations  which  never  change.  Men  will  never  differ  in 
opinion  that  children  should  love  their  parents ;  that 
men  should  be  true  and  loyal  to  one  another;  that 
Christian  priests  should  be  pious,  chaste,  peace-loving 
people,  quite  above  seeking  worldly  and  vulgar  advan- 
tage. Hence,  when  Karl  Witte  speaks  of  misappre- 
hension and  uitentional  deception  on  Dante's  part, 
upon  this  point  he  has  no  right  to  make  such  an 
accusation. 

But  even  less,  when  he  seeks  to  prove  that  Dante 
wished  the  "  subordinate  membership  "  of  Italy  under 
the  German  Empire. 

He  grants  that  Dante  seldom  mentions  the  Germans 
as  a  race.  Instead  of  "  seldom "  he  should  have  said 
"as  good  as  never."  Dante  only  refers  to  us  in  the 
Inferno  (17-21)  as  a  people,  where  he  honors  us  with 
the  soubriquet  of  lurchi,  drunkards  and  revellers.  Here, 
however,  we  are  alluded  to  simply  in  a  geographical 
sense,  to  indicate  a  certain  locahty.  Yet,  ia  spite  of 
this,  Dante  is  said  to  have  desired  above  all  things  the 
subordination  of  Italy  to  German  sovereignty.  And 
why  ?  Because  he  thought  it  right  a  German  emperor 
should  rule  the  world,  —  consequently,  Italy. 


282  DANTE. 

"  German "  or  "  German-Eoman  "  the  writer  calls 
this  emperor.  This  designation  is  so  current  in  Ger- 
many, that  we  may  allow  him  to  translate  the  Latin 
Imperator  or  Impcrator  Romanus  in  this  way.  But 
to  attempt  to  build  up  historic  proofs  on  this  superficial 
use  of  language,  without  even  an  allusion  to  the  dif- 
ferent meaning  of  the  words,  cannot  be  permitted  in 
science ;  and  least  of  all  when  attempting  to  prove 
intentional  deception.  Dante  nowhere  speaks  of  a 
German  or  German-Eoman  Empire,  of  an  Imperial 
Tedesco,  Germanico-AUamannico,  or  Tedesco-Eomano, 
etc. ;  but  wherever  in  Karl  Witte's  essay  this  is  im- 
puted to  Dante  he  uses  either  the  word  Imperium  or 
Imperium-Romanum,  without  the  faintest  hint  of  the 
fact  that  the  person  of  the  emperor  must  be  German ; 
or,  more  than  all,  that  the  rule  of  an  emperor  was 
synonymous  with  the  poHtical  preponderence  of  the 
Germans  in  Italy.  If  Dante  could  not  conceive  the 
imperial  crown  on  any  but  a  German  head,  some  such 
distinct  declaration  was  necessary  at  a  time  when  the 
French  kings  and  other  princes,  not  German,  were 
on  the  point  of  attaining  to  this  dignity.  Once  he 
addresses  Albrecht,  Eudolph  of  Hapsburg's  son,  "O 
Alberto  Tedesco,"  ^  and  reproaches  him  for  not  coming 
to  Italy  to  be  crowned  as  emperor  and  to  establish 
peace.  I  should  be  inclined  (although  I  by  no  means 
insist  on  it)  to  translate  even  these  words  in  an  unfav- 

1  Purg.  vi.  98 :  "  O  Alberto  Tedesco,  ch'  abbandoni,    costei    ch'  e 

fatta  indomita  e  selvaggia." 


DANTE.  283 

orable  sense :  "  0  Alberto,  you  are  a  true  German,  an 
irresolute  procrastinator,  leaving  Italy  in  her  dilemma, 
and  never  coming  to  help  us  Ghibellines ; "  still,  the 
Tedesco  may  here  mean  that  Albert,  although  he  had 
come  to  Italy,  had  remained  a  German ;  he  ought  to 
have  come  to  Eome,  and  been  converted  into  a  Eoman. 
These,  however,  are  conjectures,  for  nowhere  else 
does  Dante  aUude  to  the  peculiarities  of  the  German 
character.  Nowhere,  for  instance,  does  he  acknowl- 
edge, what  he  must  often  enough  have  had  occasion  to 
obser\''e,  that  German  soldiers  fought  better  than  Ital- 
ian, nor  do  the  Ghibellines,  as  a  party,  manifest  any 
personal  favor  toward  the  Germans.  In  what  respect 
do  they  ever  give  us  the  foremost  rank  ?  Dante's 
favorite  expression  for  his  emperor,  —  this  instrument 
of  providence,  towering  over  all  nationahties,  —  is  Im- 
'pcradore  whose  office  par  excellence  is  called  Imperio, 
without  further  additions,  —  "  Ciii  ufficio  e  per  ecceUenza 
Imperio  chiamato  senza  nulla  addizione."  I  quote  these 
words  from  his  work  entitled  B  Convito,  or  "  The  Ban- 
quet," which,  unlike  the  Monarchy,  is  no  purely  literary 
work,  divorced  from  the  politics  of  the  day,  but  bears 
directly  upon  contemporary  events,  and  is  couched  in 
maturer  language,  —  more  concise,  more  passionate. 
The  Convito,  rather  than  the  Monarchy,  should  be 
quoted,  if  Dante's  views  of  the  Empire  are  to  be  dis- 
cussed. Here  we  are  made  to  feel  clearly  what  special 
emphasis  belongs  to  the  word  Eoman,  as  an  attribute 
of  the  Emperor's,  and  that  it  would  have  been  impossi- 


284  DANTE. 

ble  for  Dante  to  have  used  the  terms  "German"  or 
"  German  Eoman "  indiscriminately  as  our  essayist 
does. 

Dante  troubled  himself  as  little  about  the  nation- 
ality of  his  Emperor  as  our  strictest  ultramontane 
Catholics  do  about  the  nationality  of  the  Pope,  who 
would  never  dream  of  wishing  to  establish  the  sov- 
ereignty of  Italy  in  Germany,  because  the  popes  had 
usually  been  Itahan.  The  Church  is  the  sole  consid- 
eration ;  Eome,  as  the  residence  of  its  supreme  head,  is 
outside  of  any  political  chart.  Eome  is  the  dwelling- 
place  of  the  highest  spiritual  power,  before  which  all 
nations  are  equal.  So  the  Ghibellines  regarded  the 
Emperor,  Dante  says  it  expressly.  All  who  belong 
to  the  Eoman  Empire  are  Eomans;  but  the  Italians 
have  the  advantage  of  direct  descent  from  the  ancient 
people  who  founded  the  Empire,  and  made  its  centre. 
Italy  is  the  garden  of  the  Empire  —  il  gardino  dell  impe- 
rio,  —  Eome  its  capital,  Italy  to  Dante  was  the  old 
predestined  nest  in  which  the  fate  of  the  world  was 
incubated ;  Germany,  the  soil  which  was  to  furnish  the 
representatives  of  the  highest  temporal  power.  The 
political  institutions  of  Germany,  a  knowledge  of  which 
would  surely  have  been  of  the  first  importance,  if  Italy 
was  to  become  a  "  subordinate  member  "  of  the  German 
Empire,  were  entirely  beyond  Dante's  horizon. 

And  now,  in  conclusion,  the  Italians,  in  their  zeal  for 
a  single  free,  united  kingdom,  Italy,  should  not  appeal 
to  Dante  as  one  to  whom  this  single,  free,  and  great 
Italy  was  in  his  day  an  object  of  enthusiasm. 


DANTE. 


285 


By  means  of  a  brief  sketch  of  Italian  history,  our 
author  seeks  to  prove  that  Dante  never  advocated  this 
distinction-levelling  isolation  of  Italy,  but  the  already 
so  often  mentioned  "  subordinate  membership  "  of  Italy 
under  the  German  empire.  But  here  it  should  first 
have  been  proved  that  Dante  knew  anything  about 
this  so-caUed  "subordinate  membership;"  and,  sec- 
ondly, that  the  rule  of  the  whole  earth  by  an  emperor, 
which  he  desired,  was  totally  unlike  the  form  of  govern- 
ment recently  consolidated  in  Italy  Dante's  empire, 
and  the  centralization  of  the  government  under  Victor 
Emanuel,  are  two  such  utterly  different  things  that  we 
cannot  even  speak  of  contradiction  or  contrast  between 
them,  any  more  than  between  an  mfant  borne  upon 
the  arm  of  its  parent  and  the  same  individual  fifty 
years  later  on  horseback. 

Different  times  simply  produce  different  conditions. 
Dante  indeed  complains  that  Italy  is  fuU  of  tyrants.^ 
But  it  does  not  foUow  from  this  that  he  would  have 
helped  to  expel  the  several  dukes  and  the  Bourbons 
to-day;  nor  that  his  enthusiasm  for  the  ancient  em- 
pire would  have  dismclined  him  personally  to  Victor 
Emanuel.  The  union  which  has  been  achieved  in 
our  day  would  have  been  something  inconceivable  to 
Dante.  To  bring  together  under  a  central  govern- 
ment states  so  unlike  as  Genoa,  Venice,  Pisa,  Florence, 
Kome,  and  Naples  would  have  seemed  as  impossible  to 


1  Purg.  vi.  124  :  Che  le  terre  d'  Italia  tulte  piene  son  di  tiranni. 


286  DANTE. 

him  as  to  us  the   suggestion  of   a  universal  empire, 
with  London,  Paris,  or  New  York  for  its  capital. 

V. 

Dante's  political  wishes  were  dreams  even  to  his 
generation ;  to  us  they  are  historic  curiosities !  How 
very  greatly  the  imperial  poKcy,  as  he  conceived  it, 
differed  from  that  which  the  Emperor  himself  thought 
politic  and  practical,  is  shown  by  the  conduct  of 
Henry  of  Luxembourg,  —  the  long  looked-for  helper 
of  Italy. 

Perceiving  clearly  enough  that  the  Ghibellines  did 
not  care  so  much  to  obey  him,  as  through  him,  and 
for  their  own  advantage,  to  subdue  the  Guelphs,  he 
awarded  to  both  parties  the  strictest  justice.  Eegard- 
less  of  their  hostility  toward  one  another,  he  sought 
with  the  help  of  both  to  establish  firmly  the  imperial 
authority,  and  soon  the  accusation  arose  among  the 
Ghibellines  that  the  Emperor  was  a  Guelph.  Dante 
himself  urges  him  to  pursue  a  different  course,  but 
Henry  remains  true  to  his  own  policy,  to  the  success 
of  which  an  early  death  put  an  end. 

He  did  not  restore  the  Ghibellines  to  Florence. 
Dante  died  in  exile.  Two  popes  —  a  Guelph  in 
Avignon,  a  Ghibelline  in  Eome  —  stood  at  a  distance, 
inimical  to  one  another,  —  personifications  of  the  con- 
test between  France  and  Germany.  The  French  kings 
attempted  to  usurp  the  imperial  crown  in  vain ;  when 
these  contests  came  to  an  end,  however,  the  Eoman 


DANTE.  287 

popes  could  no  longer  pretend  to  the  supremacy  in 
Europe,  being  small  princes,  with  a  purely  local  politi- 
cal power.  They  yielded  to  the  new  idea  of  higher  spir- 
itual freedom,  gained  through  a  reawakened  interest  in 
classical  studies,  whilst  the  German  emperors  in  their 
turn  allowed  their  claims  to  jurisdiction  over  the  whole 
earth  to  lie  dormant.  The  structure  which  Charles  the 
Fifth  two  centuries  later  erected  was  of  a  different 
nature ;  with  him  disappeared  the  last  traces  of  those 
gigantic  proportions  Dante  had  in  view  when  he  com- 
posed his  Monarchy.  Yet  how  firmly  the  original  con- 
ception of  one  grand  empire  still  clung  to  the  mind  is 
shown  by  the  various  notions,  evolved  from  old  impe- 
rialism, which  sprang  up  in  the  very  times  of  the 
Eeformation ;  these  not  only  prove  how  immensely 
strong  that  first  foundation  was,  but  also  how  in  har- 
mony with  the  nature  of  things  had  been  this  ruler 
of  rulers,  who  issued  irrevocable  decrees  for  high  and 
low,  and  was  a  match  for  the  Pope. 

Dante's  way  of  treating  politics,  philosophy,  and 
theology  must  appear  to  us  childish  and  old-fashioned. 
In  such  a  maze  of  proofs  we  should  not  expect  to-day 
to  entrap  the  smallest  fly.  Neither  is  it  to  be  assumed 
that  Dante,  were  he  alive  to-day,  would  entertain  ideas 
in  the  remotest  degree  like  those  we  find  in  his  writ- 
ings. If  the  specific  weight  of  a  great  spirit  is  to  be 
ascertained,  we  must  once  and  for  all  reject  the  idea 
of  burdening  the  scales  with  the  transitory  conditions 
under  which  he  lived. 


288  DANTE. 

"What  was  the  actual  attitude  of  the  man  toward 
the  eternal  questions  which  agitate  mankind  ?  Did  he 
love  his  country  ?  Did  he  love  freedom  ?  Did  his 
intuitions  guide  him  to  the  right,  or  did  he  arrive  at 
it  only  through  calculation  ?  And  finally,  could  any- 
thing have  induced  him  to  act  contrary  to  his  con- 
victions ?  We  may  not  even  take  into  account  the 
peculiarities  of  character,  which,  although  apparently 
independent  of  outward  circumstances,  in  truth  were 
to  be  ascribed  wholly  to  the  nature  and  conditions  of 
the  period.  For  example,  Frederick  the  Great's  pre- 
dilection for  French  literature,  the  cruel  manner  in 
which  Barbarossa  conducted  his  wars,  or,  if  we  take 
Dante,  the  severity  with  which  he  attacked  his  ene- 
mies, through  exile,  loneliness,  and  poverty  increased 
almost  to  the  point  of  savagery.  One  might  say  that 
Dante  advocated  in  his  lifetime  an  impractical,  ideal, 
reactionary  policy ;  and  why  should  he  not  do  the 
same  to-day  ?  "VMiolly  carried  away  by  one-sided  party 
passion,  he  was  blind  to  the  good  in  his  opponents,  and 
overlooked  or  palliated  the  wrong  in  his  friends.  ^\Tiy 
should  he  not  to-day  have  argued  from  the  same  preju- 
diced standpoint  ?  But  such  hypotheses  are  false ;  they 
do  not  go  deep  enough.  If  Dante  is  to  be  named  in 
connection  with  the  present  state  of  his  country,  we 
must  ask.  How  would  a  man  such  as  he,  —  not  the  old 
Dante,  embittered  by  experience,  but  the  man  in  his 
prime,  untrammelled  by  any  past  or  future,  —  how 
would  he  have  decided  ?     For  the  freedom  and  unity 


DANTE.  289 

of  Italy,  or  for  sTibmission  to  those  who,  as  opposed  to 
this  unity  and  freedom,  have  either  fled  the  country,  or 
are  still  there,  openly  or  secretly  working  against  it  ? 
We  must  free  him  from  all  earthly  alloy,  and  regard 
him  neither  as  the  man  who  experienced  what  he  ex- 
perienced ;  nor  even  in  a  certain  sense  as  the  man  who 
wrote  what  he  ^Tote.  "We  must  try  to  discern  only  the 
spirit  in  which  he  wrote  and  acted  if  we  wdsli  to  invoke 
his  assistance  in  determiniag  the  vexed  questions  of  the 
present  day. 

VI. 

Dante  was  Ghibelline,  representative  and  defender 
of  the  holy  ancient  empire.  But  what  vestige  remains 
of  this  old  idea  to-day?  Compare  the  cause  of  the 
old  Ghibelliaes  with  that  of  the  present  Legitimists 
in  Italy;  is  there  a  glimmer  of  this  shiaing  ideal 
left  ?  Where,  now,  the  frantic  spirit  of  the  Ghib- 
ellines?  where  the  brilhant  past  they  recalled  with 
pride  ?  Dante  was  an  impassioned  behever  in  a  di- 
vinely appointed  emperor,  the  most  purely  ideal  of 
monarchs,  whose  rule,  whether  he  looked  into  the 
past  or  the  future,  seemed  eternal ;  but  what  of  aU  this 
would  he  find  to-day  ?  What  trace  of  anything  ideal 
has  there  been  in  the  governments  of  the  kings  of 
Naples  or  the  grand-dukes  of  Tuscany  ?  Tuscany  has 
been  built  upon  the  ruins  of  the  freedom  of  the  old 
independent  city  of  Florence,  destroyed  by  Hes,  treason, 
and  violence.  The  glory  of  Tuscany  ends  with  the 
beginning  of  hereditary  sovereignty  in   the   country. 


290  DANTE. 

How  the  Papal  States  came  together  has  been  already 
alluded  to,  and  how  the}"  were  governed  is  well  known. 
Naples  belonged  by  sheer  accident  to  the  Bourbons  ; 
from  Spain,  as  foreigners,  they  had  forced  their  way 
to  the  Neapohtan  throne.  Lastly,  Venice  and  ]\Iilan 
'were  deprived  of  their  freedom.  Venice  was  given  to 
Austria,  which  for  centuries  had  been  her  natural 
enemy.  Milan,  first  through  Charles  V  made  a  Span- 
ish possession,  thus  passed  over  to  Austria, 

If  in  either  of  these  countries  prosperity  of  any 
kind  had  attended  the  government  forced  by  these 
various  rulers  upon  the  people,  I  would  willingly  hear 
it  called  providential,  and  look  upon  such  rulership  as 
hallowed  by  time  and  success.  But  where  do  we  find 
the  slightest  claim  to  such  high  sanction  ?  And  could 
a  man  like  Dante  have  been  so  blind  to  the  last  cen- 
turies of  ItaUan  history,  as  now,  that  his  people  are 
recovering  from  their  long  oppression,  to  wish  a  return 
to  weakness,  dismemberment,  and  spiritual  bondage ; 
and  to  see  in  it  any  likeness  to  the  obedience  paid  in 
his  time  to  the  Eoman  emperor  ?  Dante  was  a  patriot. 
This  makes  him  a  hero  for  all  time,  without  further 
historic  inquiry.  An  instinct  finer  than  the  subtlest 
scholarly  acumen  leads  the  people  to  discover  their 
representative  men  and  put  them  in  their  right  places. 
Arminius,  Charles  the  Great,  Barbarossa,  Frederick, 
have  become  to  us  symbols  of  German  hberty,  wholly 
apart  from  the  pohtical  relations  of  their  day,  with 
which  only  the  few  are  famihar.     To  others  the  mem- 


DANTE.  291 

ory  of  Charles  V  or  Louis  XIV  may  be  strengthening. 
Having  verified  themselves  as  men  who  had  absorbed 
the  nature  of  their  people  until  their  deeds  appeared 
as  an  emanation  of  the  national  mind,  we  must  assume 
that  they  would  stand  forth  in  every  age  alike  in  de- 
fence of  freedom  and  country,  and  think  and  act  in 
harmony  with  all  true  patriots. 

The  present  Italian  question  is  not  one  in  which 
we  Germans  actively  participate.  God  be  praised,  the 
times  are  outlived  when  we  were  ready  to  help  others 
that  we  might  foro-et  ourselves  !  These  recent  Itahan 
struggles  have  interested  us  greatly  because  of  their 
similarity  with  our  own.  Wlien  a  country  is  under- 
going a  radical  transformation,  the  dregs  often  come 
to  the  surface,  and  blind  zeal  on  both  sides  leads  to 
WTongs  and  injustice.  The  Queen  of  Naples  showed 
herself  in  Gaeta,  a  woman  of  courage  and  energy. 
Every  one  must  have  sympathized  with  her,  when  as 
a  queen  without  a  throne  she  was  forced  to  leave  her 
country ;  just  as  we  pity  the  last  kmg  of  Grenada, 
obliged  to  surrender  his  kingdom  to  Ferdinand  and 
Isabella,  or  even  the  last  king  of  the  Vandals  when 
we  see  him  a  prisoner  in  Byzantium,  led  along  in  the 
triumphal  procession.  It  is  always  pitiful  to  behold 
the  downfall  of  an  empire,  and  an  ancient  dynasty 
wandering  in  exile.  But,  notwithstanding,  the  Kmg 
of  Sardinia,  Garibaldi,  and  Cavour  were  the  saviors 
of  their  country.  "WTiat  would  Italy  have  been  had 
the  Bourbons  continued  to  rule  in  Naples,  or  the  popes 


292  DANTE. 

ill  the  States  of  the  Church?  Whoever  has  known 
the  condition  of  things  in  Italy,  if  only  as  a  traveller, 
must  feel  that  without  a  total  change  the  people  would 
have  been  lost.  It  is  not  necessary  to  hate  the  benev- 
olent Grand-duke  of  Tuscany,  nor  to  feel  any  the  less 
sympathy  with  the  courageous  Queen  of  Xaples ;  the 
transformation  was  one  of  the  inevitable  necessities. 
Even  our  affinity  with  Austria  cannot  bhnd  us  to  the 
well-authenticated  fact,  that  it  was  the  Austrian  policy 
which  for  many  years  actually  suppressed  by  force  all 
mental  development  in  Italy. 

To  realize  half  the  misery  contained  in  this  one  word 
"  force "  we  need  only  glance  at  some  of  the  recent 
Italian  literature.  Take  the  works  of  a  man  like  Leo- 
pardi,  who  was  neither  conspirator  nor  revolutionist. 
In  reading  these  poems,  essays,  and  letters  we  feel  the 
anguish  to  which  those  are  condemned  who,  in  the 
midst  of  a  people  bound  down  in  spiritual  slavery, 
with  the  love  of  freedom  gnawing  at  their  hearts, 
strain  weary  eyes  for  a  glimpse  of  liberty  beyond  their 
prison-walls.  For  all  this  Austria  was  to  blame  in 
regard  to  Italy,  as  well  as  Germany ;  not  the  Austrian 
people,  but  their  rulers.  It  was  they  who  strove  for 
centuries  to  weaken  and  humiliate  Prussia  and  Xorth 
Germany.  Karl  Witte  says  rightly,  that  the  hatred  of 
the  Italians  for  the  Germans  is  a  product  of  modem 
times.  They  hate  the  Germans  because  the  common 
people  confound  the  words  Tedesco  and  Austriaco. 
Xobody  hates  the  Prussians,  nobody  would  hate  Aus- 
tria if  Austria  had  not  provoked  the  feeling. 


DANTE.  293 

vn. 

What  men  long  for  to-day  is  Liberty.  When  a 
great  nation  has  once  become  conscious  that  it  is 
a  unit,  —  an  intrinsic  whole,  —  it  must  be  insufferable 
to  find  itself  sundered  by  boundaries,  different  laws, 
and  a  splitting  up  of  its  military  force.  These  bound- 
aries, this  want  of  uniformity  in  the  laws,  this  scatter- 
ing of  power,  seem  arbitrary,  —  contrary  to  its  nature 
and  hindrances  to  its  natural  growth  and  highest  wel- 
fare. The  people  chafe  under  them.  There  have  ever 
been  epochs  when  by  a  suddenly  aroused  and  mar- 
velous spirit  of  cooperation  among  the  people  every 
member  has  exerted  himself  to  the  utmost  to  restore 
natural  relations,  and  when  everything  sank  which 
did  not  possess  the  power,  to  maintain  outright  its 
proper  existence.  Neither  repugnance  to  regal  au- 
thority, nor  hatred  of  nobility,  nor  clergy,  nor  indeed 
impatience  with  any  kind  of  authority,  agitates  man- 
kind to-day ;  but  a  wholly  new  feeling  has  grown  up 
and  spread  to  an  extent  unparalleled  in  the  history  of 
the  world.  A  stress  is  now  laid  on  the  importance  of 
self-direction,  independence  of  traditionary  rules  and 
customs,  on  release  from  all  that  is  arbitrary,  on  free- 
dom in  thought  and  deed,  and  justice  to  every  human 
claim.  Men  will  sacrifice  themselves,  but  it  must  be 
voluntarily ;  men  will  subordinate  themselves,  but  only 
to  the  worthiest ;  they  will  dwell  where  they  choose, 
and  go  and  come  without  being  driven.  That  every 
human  being  is  to  share  in  the  rulership  of  the  world, 


294  DANTE. 

according  to  Ms  possessions,  that  each  is  in  truth  a 
part  of  the  whole,  without  whose  assistance  the  pubhc 
welfare  is  not  to  be  maintained  and  the  necessary 
progress  insured,  all  this  is  granted  to-day  without 
grudging,  even  by  those  whose  personal  interests  would 
at  first  seem  to  stand  in  opposition.  The  astonishing 
feature  in  the  present  movement  is  that  practical  ways 
for  achieving  this  resolution  open  on  all  sides  as  if  by 
magic,  and  while  resistance  shrinks  into  nothingness, 
unity  of  action  promises  to  bring  the  unattainable 
within  reach.  This  convergence  toward  the  truth,  from 
all  directions,  is  the  glorious  fact  in  our  present  experi- 
ence. The  light  which  has  penetrated  everywhere  has 
reduced  our  wishes  and  expectations  to  normal  dimen- 
sions converting  secret  discontent  into  openly  avowed 
love  of  country;  indifference  into  active  effort  for  its 
highest  good ;  despondency  into  confidence  in  a  future 
by  whose  light  the  present  appears  a  historic  epoch 
fruitful  and  elevating  beyond  all  conception. 

"Would  Dante  have  held  aloof  from  all  this?  In 
dark,  perplexing  conditions  he  stood  forth  boldly,  an 
ardent  partisan.  His  poem  is  a  trumpet-call  to  ven- 
geance on  his  opponents;  with  implacable  rage  he 
pursues  them  beyond  this  life,  and  pictures  them  as 
eternally  damned.  And  yet  wherever  he  rises  to  the 
height  of  the  purely  human,  undisturbed  by  party 
passion,  he  is  unconstrained  and  gentle.  Could  his 
imagination  have  gone  so  far  as  to  have  conceived  the 
possibility  of   all  nations  being  united  in  one  grand 


DANTE.  295 

treaty  of  peace,  all  the  inhuman  means  of  compulsion, 
which  his  narrow-minded  century  dragged  along  with 
it,  gone,  —  a  favorable  development  of  one's  own  nature 
made  the  aim  toward  which  each  individual  in  the 
uncounted  milHons  on  our  planet  was  striving,  —  must 
he  not  have  hailed  the  picture  with  enthusiasm,  and, 
overwhelmed  by  its  splendor,  have  joyfully  allowed  it 
to  replace  that  of  the  papacy  and  "  The  Empire  "  ?  I 
have  wittingly  given  the  most  ideal  view  of  our  future, 
because  Dante's  conception  of  the  empire  was  so  ex- 
travagantly ideal.  To  him  Italy  was  still  ever  the 
central  point  of  the  flat  disk,  with  countries  to  right 
and  left  only  dimly  visible,  the  past  a  chaos  without 
road  or  track,  the  present  a  general  struggle  for  per- 
sonal supremacy.  Thoughts  of  a  higher  freedom  almost 
unconsciously  crowd  into  his  verses,  and  lie  so  deeply 
imbedded  therein,  that  their  interpretation  has  been 
the  chosen  task  of  those  who  bore  the  proud  con- 
sciousness of  being  the  truest  sons  of  Italy,  and  by 
the  genius  which  set  him  free  and  raised  him  above  the 
strifes  of  the  hour  he  has  drawn  to  himself  the  pas- 
sionate love  and  enthusiasm  of  all  parties. 

In  Guelphic  Florence  itself  men  very  soon  felt  that 
Dante's  Ghibellinism  was  something  quite  different 
and  superior  to  the  selfish,  wavering  policy  of  those 
into  whose  midst  he  had  been  thrown.  As  Dante 
conceived  Imperialism,  it  would  indeed  have  been  the 
salvation  of  his  country.  The  form  of  government 
which  he  imagined  was  the  culmination  of  Eomanic 


296  DANTE. 

ideas,  and  would  even  to-day  be  the  highest  conception 
of  the  Eomans,  if  it  had  not  been  for  the  final  break- 
ing through  of  Germanic  ideas.  According  to  the 
latter  we  no  longer  need  any  pope  or  emperor  as 
personal  forces.  Pubhc  opinion,  that  is,  a  general  judg- 
ment formed  on  broad  and  wide-cast  knowledge,  is  the 
monarch  to-day  governing  the  nations.  As,  despite 
the  differences  of  creed,  one  universal,  invisible  Chris- 
tian Church  unites  the  majority  of  men  (a  substitute 
for  Pope  and  Catholicism),  so,  in  political  affairs  there 
rules  a  code  of  morals,  which  finds  expression  in  the 
public  opinion  of  the  Germanic  nations.  No  power  can 
successfully  oppose  it.  Inexorably  it  judges  princes 
and  people  neither  resistance  nor  deception  can  re- 
strain or  lead  it  astray.  To  Dante's  generation  the 
undisputed  sway  of  a  mere  sentiment  was  incom- 
prehensible. Pope  and  emperor,  armed  with  the  spirit- 
ual and  temporal  sword,  seemed  indispensable  powers. 

Dante  conceived  them  as  purely  and  spiritually  as 
the  idea  admits ;  to  have  soared  wholly  beyond  it  he 
must  have  been  more  than  human. 

If,  returning  to  the  life  that  now  is,  he  saw  the 
peaceful  intercourse  of  nations  with  one  another, 
the  flight  of  thought  over  whole  communities,  and  the 
unanimity  of  thousands  in  spiritual  concerns,  where 
formerly  here  and  there  only  an  individual  troubled 
himself  about  them ;  if  he  saw  the  cities  without  walls 
connected  by  air-line  roads,  the  entire  disappearance 
of  that  envious  hostility  with  which  they  once  pried 


DANTE.  297 

into  each  other's  affairs,  the  light  of  science  penetrat- 
ing fields  which  were  unknown  wastes  to  him,  the 
immense  influence  of  individuals  whose  genius  is  uni- 
versally appreciated ;  if,  above  all,  he  saw  his  country, 
hitherto  crushed  and  fettered  by  selfish  tyranny,  sud- 
denly dropping  her  chains  to  share  in  these  noblest 
blessings,  would  he  devote  the  life-giving  power  of  his 
spirit  to  replacing  those  walls  of  separation  which 
hemmed  the  way  to  her  development  ? 

As  during  his  lifetime  he  tried  to  embrace  all  the 
sciences,  and  by  their  aid  to  corroborate  and  fortify  his 
opinions,  he  would  also  seek  the  means  now  afforded 
for  raising  himself  to  the  same  height.  His  dim,  child- 
like notions  of  the  past  would  resolve  themselves  into 
luminous  thoughts  of  what  had  been,  and  truer  an- 
ticipations of  what  was  to  be,  while  his  narrow-minded 
Florentine  patriotism  would  broaden  into  a  love  for 
united  Italy  such  as  fiUs  the  breasts  of  the  noblest 
men  of  his  country  to-day. 


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